


like a movie loves a screen

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: 1960s, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Historical, Developing Relationship, Found families are the best, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Canon, Romance, brandy is the best dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23055859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: So if they’re more than brothers and less than wives… boyfriends?Post-movie, everything’s going great. Cliff moves in, Francesca moves out, Rick gets work, Hollywood loves them again, they start sleeping together, new carpet for the living room, the whole fucking domestic works. Two disaster bisexuals, on the upswing.title from april smith and the great picture show
Relationships: Cliff Booth & Rick Dalton, Cliff Booth/Rick Dalton
Comments: 24
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hoo boy this thing has been three months in the making. the whole fic is finished, I just gotta type up the last bit. originally it was gonna be a one shot but I realised just HOW much I had written. anyway, these two were my favourite thing about this film and I love my disaster bisexuals and their dog. but also I don't GET how other people write Francesca (no hate, everyone has their own headcanons) I mean, she's not perfect, given that she's a character from a Tarantino movie, but... idk, I just really like the idea of her being a friend to Rick whilst also calling him out on his bullshit with zero of the patience Cliff has for him. 
> 
> if any of this chapter seems slightly confusing, it IS intentional, given that they're both unreliable narrators.

The thing is- the thing is- and Cliff is very much aware he can think this now only because he’s even higher than he was earlier in the evening from that cigarette (at least _something_ good came outta those hippies, goddamn)- the thing is, Cliff isn’t the kind of guy who likes to be tethered down anyway. There’s something to be said for the nomadic life; he can leave at any point, any time the shit hits the fan or any time after, and that knowledge is a comfort to his restless bones. Brandy’s included in that equation- she can go anywhere he goes. He lives in a trailer in a parking lot because it’s a liminal space and stops him buying anything he can’t flee with. Rick’s the closest thing he has to roots. He snorts and shifts in his hospital bed, waiting for the pain bursting the bubble of the high to recede and let him float again. ‘Rick Dalton’ and the concept of ‘stability’ don’t belong in the same sentence yet somehow, Rick’s the thing that’s keeping him here, that’s been keeping him here for the past ten years. It’s been a long fucking ten years and that’s the only explanation, reason, excuse, _whatever_ that he can come up with to explain the sinking feeling he felt as Rick told him it was the end of the line.

So he got blind drunk and then he got high, which meant there was a good chance he wasn’t going to wake up at Rick’s house the next morning and could go straight to Van Nuys, hitch his car to his trailer or maybe even just leave the trailer entirely and _go_. If only it weren’t for those fucking hippies…

Cliff thinks he swears aloud, but it’s only him in the hospital room and he can’t be sure. He likes being high as much as the next guy, but painkillers are something else, make him feel less real in a bad way, unnerving, like he isn’t quite sure of his body when he’s on them. Now, Cliff likes being high, but he also likes knowing he can get himself the hell outta Dodge if the need arises, whatever that may entail. The fact he might not and the fact he’s almost certainly in a place where he won’t _need_ to makes for a bad combination and he closes his eyes, rolls onto his bad side to check he still exists and tries to fall asleep as quick as he can, which isn’t very quick at all. His mind keeps going back to Rick, who could have been shot or murdered or anything whilst he lay unconscious on his living room carpet from a stab wound that isn’t as bad as some of the injuries he got back on the set of _Bounty Law_. Every injury in the workplace was made bearable because before after or during, he could look across to see Rick and know no harm was going to come to him. That, despite Cliff’s best intentions, might not have happened this time. And- Cliff knows life just happens, knows when you can just shrug and walk it off, laugh and roll with the punches, go ‘it is what it is’ and move on. If any of them _had_ come to harm tonight, it’s not some grand master plan from any higher power or the universe out to get him it would just be how it went.

If it had been Rick though; that thought requires a lot of effort. Cliff stops thinking after that.

***

Rick lets himself back into his own house through the broken screen door and, despite the blood and guts and mess everywhere, things are looking up. Sharon Tate’s a real nice lady, real, _real_ nice, her and Jay both- Cliff would like them, he thinks. Cliff. The mess the fucking hippies have made of his house _oh fuck_ and he’s laughing, doubling over and clutching the counter to stay upright. Francesca and Brandy are completely knocked out on the bed, through the tunnel of open doors leading away from him onto them. His stunt double’s dog is in bed with his wife and Rick laughs harder, drunk and hoping one of them’ll wake up and join in.

Stumbles through to the lounge, stubs his toes and doesn’t feel it. That’s when he decides he's getting squished hippie- face- blood- bone?- _whatever_ off his phone, his carpet, his sofa. This is _Rick Dalton’s_ house and if there’s anyone getting blood on his carpet then it’s him. Do it now before the booze wears off and the hangover wears in, do it now before Francesca wakes up and perhaps she’ll even look at him nicely, waking up to a clean house. Maybe she’ll think it was all a dream and won’t say anything. Never mind it’s two in the morning and he hasn’t slept in- he can’t count that high. Now where does Cliff keep the cleaning stuff?

(The thing is… Rick did _not_ have a gay panic in Italy, he didn’t. He just felt the overwhelming need to get a wife and Francesca fit the casting audition nicely. Suddenly they were kissing and even sooner they were married and then it was too late to fix anything.)Isn't bleach and chemicals, dangerous or some shit? Ah well, Rick’s starting to think he makes bad choices when he’s drunk.

More laughter. “Oh God, that’s f- funny,” he tells himself, wiping tears away from his eyes and then turning on his heel and walking back down the hall, remembering the cleaning stuff is in the shed. He goes out the front door and his face in that huge painting locks eyes on him and makes him freeze until he isn’t frozen, he’s pulling it out from behind the breeze blocks and carrying it under his arms back through the house and pulling the ruined _Tanner_ poster off the wall, pulling down everything that’s not already smashed. It all shatters when he throws it in the empty pool, though still not loud enough to wake Francesca and Brandy. On second thought…

He picks up the mural again and props it against the back wall, then finds tape and rubber gloves and tapes it over the broken slider door. Rick steps back and grins, hands on his hips, yellow rubber gloves up to his elbows. _Not bad_. He feels like a proper handyman. Kinda proud. The grin cracks open even wider when he sees the flame thrower (the police didn’t even impound it as evidence, what the fuck) and doesn’t slip away even as he goes on his knees with a scrubbing brush and a whole bottle of bleach. Maybe in a past life he’d watched as his mother did the same thing, but Rick can’t remember anything before he moved to Hollywood, before he was _Rick fucking Dalton_. The memory makes him feel light and airy as he nods along to invisible music; it’s starting to feel like it’s a good night. Sure, his house is a mess but he’s never liked the carpet anyway, really- hey, maybe Francesca will give the place a female touch and redecorate, get him to help and Cliff lying on the sofa recovering, with a shit-eating grin and telling him he “missed a spot.” All the memorabilia’s gone now, Sharon and Jay can come over and visit and won’t have to hide the same reaction Francesca did when she came through the door. Rick knows that look, the one the crew usually reserve for the cast, the _fucking actors_ one.

Shit, the joke’s on her; no one’s ever gonna look at Rick like that again and yeah, his best buddy is in the hospital but his best buddy’s gonna be fine, said so himself, he’ll be _fine_. Everything’s going to be just fine and Rick counts off the reasons why as he picks teeth out of his fire place- why d’you need a fireplace in California?

There’s him, he’s Rick fucking Dalton, there’s his best buddy Cliff, Francesca, Brandy, his new neighbours and maybe kind of his new friends. And hey, he might have burnt a hippie to death in his pool, but he’s still got a goddamn fucking pool, goddamn. This is Hollywood and he’s “Rick fucking Dalton.”

That wasn’t him.

Rick turns round and Francesca is there and he jumps, startled. She looks surprisingly awake for someone who took five different types of sleeping pills four hours ago. “Hey,” he greets her. “The- the living r-room’s nearly clean and the rest of the- of the house ain’t so bad. We’re running outta bleach, but it’s m-mostly just the kitchen and that’s all lino-l-l-leum and tiles so it’s wipe right- right off.”

“I do not want to be married to you anymore.”

He winces. Shit, ain't the Italians ever head of small talk? The words hit. He drops the scrubbing brush- it lands in the bucket of water with a ‘plop’ and he can’t speak until it’s sunk all the way to the bottom. “What?” he says. “Right. Okay.”

She looks surprised at that and it’s then that Rick can just see the fog of sleep and red circles round her eyes and he lets himself hope that the next thing she says will be her taking it all back or- or- something about little green men on the moon. Anything, anything, anything, anything to prove she’s high as he is drunk and didn’t mean what she just said. “Really?”

“No!” he’s shouting before he knows he’s even standing up. “No, not- not- not okay- we were n-nearly murdered, Francesca, what the fuck?!”

“I figure to tell you now and you only have on bad day, not two if I tell you later.”

“What the fuck-“ on inspection, the hippies smashed _all_ of his booze. “Great.” He hisses, turning away from the bar, the bar with the dent in it from a hippie’s face. Goddamn fucking goddamn hippies.

She raises one hand and holds a wine bottle. Green. Piss colour will do. “You want this? Catch?”

Somehow, even shaking, he does catch it, only it’s empty and he throws it onto the sofa in disgust. There’s a darkish patch under his leather shows, despite the bleach; Rick realises he’s standing in _Cliff’s_ pool of blood and feels the tsunami wave rocket up inside, waits for the tears to come.

The tears don’t come, he’s left gaping at Francesca until she takes pity on him. A whine echoes from the bedroom. The killer pitbull’s the only one in the house crying _fuck_.

“I marry you because I want you, Rick,” she says, tearful but no tears. Rick tries to feel love- hate- something- anything for her and can’t even remember what she looks likes when he isn’t looking at her. “You marry me because you want to want me. You do no make good husband, you fucker.”

It’s not that she’s lying about any of it- they got married because they (Cliff included) were drunk and it seemed like a good idea at the time, because no one had told them to stop drinking seven drinks before and it had got to that stage of a rare evening where Cliff would discuss his wife and Rick had gotten it into his head that they had to get married _right now_ , so Cliff’s list of ‘drunk weddings’ wouldn’t be a 100% failure rate.

What was that about him making stupid decisions when he’s drunk, again?

Still, Rick tries. He tries, gathers himself, tries to save his marriage. He’s never had to be drunk to make stupid decisions. “Fran,” he pleads. “Don’t do this.”

“I want to be happy! I cannot be happy in this house, remembering motherfucking hippies and guns. I am in horror movie and my husband not even check on me first!”

“ _Fran-_ “

“What?”

“…I love you?” it’s not the truth, but it’s closer to the truth than it is a lie, it’s just he doesn’t even know her and- and, yeah, part of his mind accepts that’s always going to be how it is, because the minute she sees Rick fucking Dalton cry like a baby she’ll be gone anyway, but he’s only been able to find one woman who wants to marry him in forty years so far and there’s no guarantee he’ll find another.

She smiles. It’s more like a grimace. “Thanks, Rick. But I think we better off as friends.”

“Don’t do this” even as he’s saying it and taking her in his arms it’s only so she can’t see the tears that have finally welled to the surface. Her arms slip round him and they’re both clinging to one another in his living room in the dark and they’re both drowning.

“I stay and we both miserable.” Her voice cracks in a lot of places, slowly, not with the explosions that come when a fucking hippies bursts through a glass plate door. “I leave and I get nice, expensive hotel room, nice rich man, nice jobs, have dinner with you some weeks. I get to be happy.”

“And just what the- the fuck do I- am I gonna get?”

“You get nice clean house, nice neighbours, nice dog, Cliff. Marriage, hippies, divorce- you will get jobs, you also get happiness- what, you think I’d leave so you would be sad?”

That’s… kind of the nicest thing anyone’s said to him in a while.

She sniffs and sags lower, resting against his chest. The sleeping pills are starting to kick in. “I don’t like America. Is scary, all guns and men and- and- and-“ she clicks her tongue, looking for the English words. “Fucking hippies.”

Rick snorts, “Fucking hippies,” he agrees, resting his chin on top of her head. He knows they’re getting divorced but he can’t quite let go just yet. “Some f-fucking consu- consummation night or whatever, huh?”

“Co-su-mmation?”

“Ah, never mind honey,” he wraps his arms round her waist and kisses her properly for the first time- on the forehead- and helps her back to the bedroom. “You get some rest, I’m g-gonna- gonna clean the kitchen.”

***

The last person he expects to see first thing the morning after is _Francesca_ and as she edges into his hospital room, Cliff thinks _huh_.

He’d think he’s underestimated her, but he can’t think that about someone twice in twenty four hours; he already used up his quota when the coptold him Rick used the flamethrower. Cliff didn't expect people to keep surprising him this late in life, yet here he is. _Huh._

He flashes her a grin, “Morning, Mrs Dalton.”

Her reply is something in Italian, something dour, before she sits in the chair and places her expensive handbag on the bedside table. “I no longer Mrs Dalton.”

That is not a surprise. Not one bit. Cliff asks the obvious question anyway- there’s nothing wrong with asking the obvious questions, at least everyone gets on the same page. “Then why the fuck are you here?”

“You save me life, so I need say thank you.” She pauses, eyes wide and rimmed with dark, thick mascara, “Thank you.”

He laughs and accepts cigarette when she offers, “You’re welcome. How, uh, how did Rick take it?”

The snort says he’s told her everything she needs to know about them- Cliff wouldn’t mind, if only there was such a thing as _them_. “He takeit well, or he is good actor. Let me sleep and cleaned whole house, so you nearly do not know fucking hippies were there.”

“Well Rick’s very good at-“ pretending things didn't happen “-cleaning.”

Francesca laughs, rushing out of her mouth like a river. Somewhere down on the streets, a car honks its horn. Los Angeles is exploding awake again, buzzing with electricity, and all the newspapers are gonna have Cielo Drive and Rick’s name on the front. “Where are you gonna go?” he asks, less out of caring and more to keep a tab on her. It’s good knowing where people are, in case of emergency.

When she smiles, he’s reminded of why Rick thought it’d be a good idea to get married: it’s a quicksilver thing, bright and wild and pretty; pretty exciting too. A mania and a desire to be seen. “I’m gonna go to a hotel suite,” she explains in an excited babble, so excited she nearly goes too fast and switches back to Italian. “I will find rich man and work and fun- fucking hippies are good publicity, yes? One foot in the door and-“ she clicks her fingers.

“Sand away we go,” Cliff finishes for her, leaning back against the pillows. Damn, this might be the first of any wife he’s ever liked.

“Yes. Away we go.” A sight outside the window catches her attention and she adjusts her sunglasses, looks at whatever it is long and hard and slides her expensive handbag up onto her elbow and stands. “Rick is bringing bagels for you,” she explains. “And I thank you already, now I go. Shit, Cliff,” another laugh. It’s the first time she’s used his name. “All I can do is say ‘thank you’. You can’t be stunt double for me; if I ask when I get jobs for them to hire you, you’ll say no unless fucking Rick is there.” She shakes her head and her jewellery jangles and mixed with the smell of her perfume. At the very least, he has to hand it to her for being so put together when so hungover. “You ever need to leave America, come back to my family in Italy and we hide you there.”

And he shakes her hand because why the fuck not, because he’s decided he likes her, because it’s the quickest way of getting her out of here and he wants to see Rick. “Enjoy your hotel.”

“Enjoy Rick Dalton’s bed,” the words don’t sink in until the door is closed behind her. Cliff can only laugh.

_***_

“He in room 402” Francesca tells him without stopping as she walks past and climbs into the taxi he just got out of. Rick speeds up, not caring that this might be the last time he sees his wife and he should probably wave her off, only caring that if he doesn’t get there soon the bagels’ll get cold.

“Hey man,” greets Cliff and Rick breathes out for the first time since the plane touched down in LAX Airport. “You brought bagels?”

“Hell yeah I did, still w-warm, too.”

Cliff tucks into two at once as he pulls the chair closer and sits down and tidies up the bottles and boxes and pills that have been knocked over on the bedside table. From a long way away, Cliff makes a crack about how great morphine is on a hangover and Rick finishes tidying and looks over at him and the minute their eyes meet for the briefest of times, not even a second, his mind goes blank and everything pours out of him in ahuge tidal wave as his shoulders slump increment by increment. He’s met his neighbours- Sharon Tate, Cliff, Sharon Tate! You remember I told you about her? Oh, no, they didn't give me a life here, me and Francesca got a taxi, stopped off to get yourbagels and some more dog food for Brandy, hey, what about-

Good goddamn but Rick feels good, he feels good, he feels good, he feels _good_.

“Can you bring me a newspaper tomorrow?” Cliff asks, with his mouth full of the last bagel. “Wanna see what they all write about us.”

“Sure th-thing, buddy. They say when they’ll- they say when you can get outta h-here?”

“Late tomorrow- I won’t even limp, they don’t think, but they wanna make sure it ain’t infected ‘fore they let me go. Fuck knows what sort of hippies shit coulda got in it.”

“Tomorrow, okay, that w-w-works. I’ll come tomorrow and we can- can call Francesca to pick us up when they s-spring you. Gives me- that gives me a chance to get the-the phone fixed later. I mean- it’ll be in all the newspapers, right? The phone’ll be damn ringing off-f-f off the hook with auditions.”

Cliff nods and repeats “Tomorrow afternoon.” He’s high and it must be the painkillers, even if the wound ain’t so bad, hospitals give you morphine like fucking candy, right? They don’t think Cliff’ll even have a limp so it can’t be bad, they wouldn’t let him go so quick if it was, no way; all those injuries he got back on _Bounty Law_ they always gave him painkillers then, too, that’s what hospitals are for.

“Tomorrow after- afternoon,” a burning pain sears up his arm and Rick thinks for a split second _I'm having a heart attack_ and then he breaths in, looks down, Cliff’s hand is on his shoulder and Cliff’s eyes are looking for his, all full of concern. “You- you’re staying with me, right? Y-you know that, right?”

“Yeah, partner,” he replies, expression never clouding, “I’llstay at your house.”

“Okay” Rick says and then he bursts into tears.

“Ah shit,” is the first time thing Cliff says about this turn of events and Rick leans away from him and folds his arms over his chest and tries to stop crying even as the words fall on his skin and sink beneath it, so painful they’re glowing orange. “Sorry,” he wheezes. God _Cliff’s_ the one in the hospital here and he’s crying and just being- just being Rick fucking Dalton. “Sorry’ bout that, I just- I just- I’m real s-s-sorry ‘bout that.” Cliff’s been in a war and probably didn't cry about it the way he is now. Rick fucking Dalton, huh?

“Sometimes-“ he stops when he realisesRick’sstill crying and waits until he’s calmed enough for him to carry on. “Sometimes shit’ll happen and it’s too close to think about, so moving on’s real easy. Then, once it’s far enough away from you, and everything’s fine and easy again, that’s the first time your brain’ll let you think about it.” He shuffles back in bed to sit up further and lets Rick go with a pat on the shoulder. “Happensto everyone.”

“Except you.”

There’s pause before Cliff unfurls a smile that’s all teeth. “Except me. Stone cold motherfucker me, you know that.”

He didn't find any tissues on the bedside table earlier so he has to make do with wiping his face on the sleeve of his leather jacket, “Brandy would d-disagree.”

“Well shit, she’s a woman, course she would” and just like that they’re laughing again and Rick remembers that real funny joke Jay told at Sharon’s last night- Sharon Tate, Cliff, Sharon Tate!- and his mind has gone blank again, blank as the hospital ceiling, everything spilling out before either of them can mention Cliff saved his life. They can file that part away with the fucking hippies.

***

“Hey buddy.” Cliff opens his eyes and finds it’s a little after noon. Sun’s coming through the window and bleaching the blue hospital walls white; so it looks even more like a proper hospital. Rick’s there, in the plastic chair, leaning forward to get a good look at Cliff’s face. There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to leave here, despite how he’s sliding back into his old place that Francesca briefly shunted him out off, and it’s mainly because there’s aheatwave on and the hospitals are the only places with reliable air conditioning.

Fuck, though, he misses his dog.

“Hey,” he belatedly greets, squinting slightly to the side of him to focus around the haze of pills. “It tomorrow already?”

“Sure is, old buddy. I got you a paper- ‘cuz, you know, you asked for a- for a newspaper, but it’s in the car. F-figured there’d be no time to read it now.”

He nods and sits up, swinging his legs out of the bed and looking around for- “You seen where they put my shoes?” he kind of already has his suspicions that they’re either under the bed or in the little cupboard marked ‘shoes’, but it gives Rick something to do other than twitch and _look_ at him. Whilst he’s distracted, Cliff stands up and hisses as his weight shifts onto his hip.

His face is completely impassive by the time Rick’s turned back round again; he smiles as he helps him with his shoes, because it’s Rick fucking Dalton and he’s in front of him on his knees, and smiles wider one he standsup and slips Cliff’s sunglasses on for him and lights him a cigarette. _And away we go_. He follows Rick out of the room and down long white corridors to the reception desk where Rick checks him out. Rubber wheels squeak on cheap linoleum and for a split second they’re coming back from Italy walking through the airport together, Francesca nowhere to be seen. Cliff blinks and Rick’s looking at him anxiously, waiting to go. _Huh_ he thinks. _Those pills must be the real shit_.

Not that he needs to be high to have crazy thoughts, but it does help. He smiles at Rick- it gets a lot easier when he visibly sees him relax and heads after himtowards the busy crowds spilling round the doors. “Shit, buddy, let’s go then.You get a taxi over here?”

“No,” when they step out into the sunlight, he takes a minute as he reorients himself to the right park of the parking lot to examine his friend closely. Rick’s always held his anxiety close to the surface, thrumming with a restless that, no matter how long they work together, will always be foreign to Cliff. Yet now he seems... kind of calm. Not completely, by any means, but... calmer. Cliff wonders what the fuck’s happened. “Not a taxi, I- Francesca drove us- look!” a smile opens up across his face like _NBC’_ s rainbow.

Cliff turns his head in the same direction to see the Cadillac pulling up alongside of them, Francesca in the driver’s seat and Brandy’s head lolling out the window with her tongue blowing the breeze. He smiles so hard his cheeks hurt and laughs before he can stop himself- Brandy barks and thumps her tail, jumping out the window the minute the car stops and running over. He’s trained her too well to jump on him, but she doesn’t stop barking with delight. He grasps Rick’s shoulder to help himself kneel down to pet her and laughs some more when she licks his face, feeling the happiest he’s felt in a while. Over his head in the louds somewhere, Francesca says something to Rick and laughs, the sound reeling Cliff back in slowly up to the surface. When he looks up in search of a hand to help him up, the sun’s behind Ricks head. _Like a halo_ he thinks, and that’s not the pain pills. Rick fucking Dalton, huh?

They get in the car and drive away from the hospital full fucking speed.

Francesca whistles with delight around her cigarette, sun flashing over her shades. “Maybe in divorce settlement I get car, yes?”

Cliff laughs in the backseat and scratches behind Brandy’s ears as she raises her head at the noise. Rick stutters something in reply that he doesn’t quite catch over _Good Thing_ playing on the radio.

“Ah yes,” she scoffs and lets out a puff of air that blows her fringe off her forehead. “Annulment not divorce, so I can tell my mother I still good catholic. So ... maybe in annulment settlement I get car, yes?”

“No,” Rick replies firmly, lighting a cigarette in his mouth and passing it back to Cliff without looking. “I brought this car when they said _Bounty Law’d_ get a second season.”

It’s a nice car, but Cliff doesn’t think that’s the point. He decides if he isn’t going to bother working out what the point actually is when he’s high on painkillers, he should just forget about it. So he does and sits further back against the soft leather upholstery, humming every time they turn a corner with smooth precision. He likes how Francesca drives and he’s discovered he likes Francesca- maybe he should feel guilty about liking her now he knows she’s leaving, but a man can’t help how he feels about a woman. “The drivers are so nice here!” she trills. “Nothing like Italy.” Even _Cliff_ didn't like driving in Italy, Italy was the one time Rick was glad it wasn’t him driving; Italy was- nothing happened in Italy except they all got drunk and made some bad decisions which is par for the course when it’s Rick, so why is Italy any different from any other shoot they’ve done over the years?

(They shared a bed in Italy and Cliff can understand why that might drive a man to get a wife but they didn't even kiss.)

The car pulls into Cielo Drive and Cliff consciously has to untense and watches the back of Rick’s head and Francesca’s bare neck. The car pulls into the driveway and he tenses up all over again, sure that the _Bounty Law_ caricature was still there when the ambulance drove off.

He lets Brandy jump out first and relaxes when she makes a beeline for the front door, tail still wagging. No danger, then. A hand appears in front of his face, detached from the body standing by the open passenger door. He makes sure his face is blank and then grasps- Rick’s grip is red-hot, always is, and that small piece of familiarity shifts in him and unlocks the puzzle, usual calm restored, normal services resumed. Rick relaxes when he sees he’s fine and Cliff lets himself smile, just a bit. Goddamn he’s always liked how dependent Rick is on him. Goddamn he likes that. “What’s for dinner?” he asks.

Rick shrugs and puts his arm round his shoulder, “You wanna order something in?”

“Pizza?”

“Sounds good!”

And if this was a movie, that’s how it ends; alive and buddies reunited, divorce unmentioned, stutter gone, dog barking and the both of them walking inside together as the sun sets, status quo resumed.

This isn’t a movie and it doesn’t just _end_. Francesca’s a whirlwind up and down the hall between both bedrooms, perfume hanging in the air and suitcases all over the place and speaking on the phone switching between Italian and English, calling a taxi, booking auditions. By the time Rick’s helped him to the couch, she’s fussing over Brandy, bending down to let her lick her face and cooing at his dog in soft Italian. She somehow grabs all her bags at once and gives Cliff a brief wave of the hand, then the door slams and he and Rick crane their necks to watch her light a cigarette through the window as she waits for the taxi to arrive. Rick turns to him and Cliff is about to crack a joke to head off the breakdown- _she waved to me not you, huh, life-savers’ privilege, I guess-_ and... Rick snorts and claps him on the shoulder as he goes into the kitchen. “ _Women_ , am I right?”

“Women,” Cliff agrees, shifting to let Brandy jump up next to him and rest her head on his lap and feeling genuinely content.

He’s not gonna have a limp, the wife is out the picture and he’s not being accused of taking her out of it forcefully; he’s living with Rick for the foreseeable future- hell even the blood’s come outta the carpet. This is too easy. It’s too easy. Now, Cliff ain’t the sort to believe in any sort of divine being or any sort of higher power, but there is some part of him that breathes out in relief when he recognises how often Rick’s eyes dart towards the bar, now empty of any alcohol. (Fucking hippies.) Not a higher power but a _balance_ , get a little give a little, and if he’s getting everything he wants, he can accept that part of that is keeping the mess of Rick Dalton stable in the privacy of his own home.

“Hey buddy,” he says as Rick wanders back into the living room and hands him the menu for their favourite pizza place. “Can you do me a favour?”

Rick blinks, “Of course.”

“Well,” Cliff stretches his legs out and winces just enough at the pull of his stitches for Rick to take notice. “Them pain pills the hospital gave me are fuckin’ strong. Make me out of it. Kinda makes me uneasy, knowing I ain’t gonna be-“ he taps the side of his head and nods back at the front door- “You know, if something like that happens again.” The fact he was high when he killed two and a half hippies is conveniently forgotten.

“Of course!” Rick’s nodding vigorously- Cliff has to bite back a grin, because this is going just how he knew it would. “I ain’t g-g- gonna- I won’t drink a damn drop ‘til y-you’re back on your feet, Cliff, I swear. Shit- shit- shit, I’m gonna see ‘bout getting- about getting my license back, too- yeah, yeah- you’ll need driving to places, won’t you? A-a- appointments and vets and- and-“

“Thanks man,” replies Cliff evenly. “I’d appreciate it.”

“Nothing of it,” he swears and ambles back to the kitchen, asking what flavour Brandy prefers at dinner time and should he get changed now? Because if he does he’ll answer the door to the delivery guy in his robe. (That fucking robe, Cliff thinks, feeling soft) Actually- actually- shit, you think they’ll deliver when I give ‘em the address, after- after- _after_?

Cliff laughs at the question and laughs some more at how his best buddy dotes on his dog, despite complaining at her slobbering all over the kitchen tile as she eats. Minding Rick Dalton is by far the easiest job he’s ever had and once, years ago when they first met, the job description would have been long and varied. Now it’s as natural as breathing and comes without thinking and sometimes in his day job Cliff has to remind himself to breathe. _Huh_ , huh? Cliff pops his next dose and lets the world unwind as he relaxes to the sound of Rick’s chaos in the kitchen.

He _doesn’t_ answer the door in his robe though he hands the pizza box over to Cliff and goes to get changed straight after; as soon as the bedroom door clicks he lets his head loll against the back of the couch and takes in the state of the living room. It is clean, at least. Rick might not be the type of guy who does housework but he’s not the type of guy who likes to live in a crime scene, either. Things are gone that Cliff doesn’t remember smashing: the collection of little ceramic cups from the Italian movies, the _Tanner_ poster, in fact… he can’t see a single piece of memorabilia anywhere. All he can see is the dent in the bar, the new phone with its shiny orange Bakelite casing and how the armchair in its new position still can’t quite cover the bleached part of the carpet.

“Damn,” Cliff times his impressed whistle to the bedroom door re-opening. “We smashed all your stuff, huh?” The plastic bag from the pharmacy has replaced the whiskey bottles on the sideboard.

“Yeah,” comes the reply without hesitation. “Most of it, yeah. ‘Cept- ‘cept the painting,” and he gestures with a slice of pizza to the plywood taped over the back door. Cliff knows it’s the mural missing from the drive, even though he can only see the back of it- he was the one who brought it back from set, after all.

“Damn, partner, sorry about that. You not got the phone fixed, yet, either?” because if he outright asked why the phone wasn’t plugged in, it wouldn’t go down well.

“No, no,” Rick waves him away and reaches for the remote control, attention completely taken by Don Adams and Barbara Feldon and Brandy, who’s now finished her dinner and trying to lie under the coffee table and on top of Rick’s shoes. “Unp-p-plugged that. Was ringing too much.”

Cliff raises his eyebrows carelessly and takes a slice for himself, “Everyone wants Rick fuckin’ Dalton now, huh?”

Rick’s grin is huge, “Everyone and t-their fucking dog wants us now, Cliff.”

No, that also ain’t the end of it.

They eat pizza, watch the rest of _Get Smart_ and then some old re-run of _I love Lucy_ , kick back and play with Brandy and don’t mention how Cliff must surely have seen everything chucked in the pool as well as the new scorch marks when he let Brandy out, but that ain't no different to how they don’t talk about what happened in Italy or what happened on _the boat_. It’s never been about what either of them says, anyway, it’s about what both of them do and have done, and how they only do it for each other. They stay up long enough for Cliff to take his next does of painkillers and to laugh at Rick trying to pronounce “Sepulveda” and then decide it’s time for bed at a reasonable time.

“Shit, we’re gettin’ _old_ ,” Rick bemoans. He helps Cliff stand and they walk to the bedroom together without thinking until they’re confronted with bed that’s still unmade from when Rick rolled out of it the morning they got on the plane to Italy. “I c-c-can, I can sleep on the couch?”

He frowns, “What? No, man, I’m not kicking you outta your own bed. I can take the spare room.” Then he remembers the spare room hasn’t got a bed any longer, after an incident a week before they left for Italy, which- well, it don’t matter except perhaps for the fact it’s the only incident he can remember that isn’t in some way related to fucking hippies. Goddamn fucking hippies, getting him into this mess.

Rick mirrors his expression, with just enough confusion and anxiety in his eyes to make it his own. “Y-you ain’t takin’ the couch. We- we- we’ll just hafta, have to share, I guess.” With that, he leaves Cliff to keep his balance on the doorframe and heads into the bathroom. Cliff waits for the click of the lock and is surprised that he’s surprised when it never comes. It’s only then that he can identify the anticipation- not worry, no, Cliff’s shaped his life so he doesn’t have to worry about anything, not even LA traffic- that’s been buzzing just under his skin the same way florescent lights buzz in a hospital when they’re never actually turned off: he’s waiting on the breakdown.

Perhaps ‘breakdown’ is too generous, because Rick’s always gotten outta bed each morning as long as Cliff’s known him, even if some days he was so hung-over it wouldn’t have happened without Cliff’s intervention, but the idea still stands: he’s waiting on Rick to snap. He’s heard it said you can’t live your life waiting on other people, but this is just stupid. In his defence: there’s an established pattern here. Shit happens, usually because of Cliff somehow, which Rick deals with, and at home (or in his trailer or in a bar or in his car, wherever the first chance he gets to be alone with Cliff ends up being) he breaks down and Cliff fixes him.

Now, he can’t claim to be no expert, but murderous fucking hippies are a hell of a way to break a pattern.

Cliff can’t say he agrees with the method; he sure as hell ain’t arguing with the results. A sort of emotionally stable Rick Dalton? Christ.

Brandy helps him pull off his boots and he chucks one at the bathroom door, “Hey! You can fuckin’ shower ‘fore you come back in- I’m not sleeping next to a guy with hair like Paul McCartney!” Rick’ll know it’s a joke, he won’t know it’s a way of manipulating him into having the shower he’s oh-so-obviously missed out on the last couple of days. Cliff doesn’t blame him, because fucking hippies’ll do that to a guy- this is just his job. And part of his job is letting Rick stay in denial. It’s really fucking simple, really.

It’s the best job Cliff’s ever had.

Five minutes later Rick comes out with wet hair and they trade places. When Cliff’s finished, he steps out of the bathroom to see Rick is already in bed, on the right side of the mattress, Brandy next to him and the left side left empty. The newspapers might be insisting the heat wave’s broken but in Cliff’s opinion they don’t know shit ‘cause it’s still hot as hell and if it wasn’t for the fact that he knows Rick’ll get upset at the sight of the bandages he’d be sleeping naked tonight. When he slides under the thin cotton sheet, he realises Rick’s still wearing his robe and a pair of soft cotton pants that he’d never dream of wearing in public.

“What?” he demands defensively the instant he notices the look Cliff’s giving him.

“We’re in the middle of a fucking heat wave, Rick.”

“So?” scowl slowly transforming into a full-blown sulk, he shifts so he’s hidden a bit more behind Brandy’s huge body.

“Are you not _hot_ , is all I’m asking.”

“No!” and he turns over so as not to face him and- yeah, he’s crossed over the line and is _definitely_ sulking now.

Cliff laughs and settles down on his own side of the bed, reaching up to scratch Brandy’s ears. _Rick fucking Dalton._

***

When he wakes up, Rick can smell bacon just beneath the heavy scent of dog hair on his pillow. He groans and rolls over, squeezing his eyes hit and surprised that the sun isn’t burning and the other side of the bed isn’t fresh and crisp. His count of one night stands is a) embarrassingly low and b) never allowed back to his house. Really the only person who’s ever come back to his house is Cliff. Cliff.

“Oh shit!” he curses, keeping his eyes shut as he kicks off the covers and scrambles into the kitchen and straight into the wall.

Falling flat on his ass _hurts_. It shocks him into opening his eyes, too- he didn't run into the wall, Cliff is standing over him wearing an apron and holding a spatula—Rick didn't know he owns a spatula. Or an apron. Cliff’s much taller now, holy shit.

“hey,” Rick asks, looking round the kitchen which looks just like _his_ kitchen. “Where’s my hangover?” The space behind is eyes feels strangely painless, the dizziness abating with each second he sits still; when Brandy pads over to say ‘good morning’ the smell of dog doesn’t ruin the thought of breakfast.

Briefly, Cliff turns round to flip the bacon in the pan and Rick- he’s hungry, honest to God hungry, when was the last time he felt hungry?- focuses back on him. Anyone else’d be looking at him like _that_. Fucking actors, that kinda way. Fucking drunk, that kinda way. Not Cliff. Cliff just- Cliff is- Cliff’s just Cliff, which means a lot. He extends a hand and pulls him to his feet and only after does Rick stop to think about his hip. “Sh-should you be- shouldn’t you be takin’ it easy?” he notices his stutter. “Shit, C-c-Cliff, you coulda- you oughta woke m-m-me.”

The shrug is easy. Like the tide going in and out. “Gee boss, me and Brandy were fucking hungry. We couldn’t wait all day.”

Night has fallen outside the window; Rick blinks, expecting the world to rotate out wildly like a cardboard background on a shoot and for the sun to begin to come up again. “What I- shit- all day?”

“Staying awake three days’ll do that to a guy. You want coffee to go with your eggs?”

He makes a face, “I don’t like coffee with fried eggs.” Cliff knows that, right? Right? Already, he feels deserted. Parched. Alone.

Cliff nods calmly, perhaps in response or maybe just along to the radio. “I know.” The tide comes back in. Rick can breathe again. “We’re doing scrambled eggs.”

“I know you k- wait. Three d-days?”

“If you count Italy, yeah.”

“Right. Are- are we counting Italy?”

Their eyes meet- even Brandy freezes and looks upset them both- picture perfect cut with all three expressions spliced into frame. ‘Atta boy, Stanley Kubrick, great shot. _What sort of question’s that?_ He berates himself. What sorta question, what sorta fucking question.

“Sure, we’re counting Italy.”

Rick nods and lets Cliff nudge everything in the world back into place as he plates up the scrambled eggs and bacon and puts bread in the toaster, marvelling at being awake without a hangover. Last time he woke up sober he was... he still can’t count that high. It’s been a long time and he’s forgotten how this used to feel, though he’s sure it used to feel much better than it does now. Cliff slides a plate across to him and Rick says, “I’m still n-not hung-over.”

Cliff laughs. The sound tinkles on the broken glass he cleaned up two nights ago. “Stayin’ awake three days’ll do that to a guy, too.”

What he means is he’s been so long he sobered up before he even fell asleep. Rick would be the first person to admit he doesn’t always make good choices but in his defence, this time he had fucking hippies to deal with. He chews on his bacon and wonders if Cliff’ll ever get tired of being a housewife. Only when the question is ringing in his ears so loud he gets dizzy , does he realise he actually asked that out loud. Aw, shit, “I d didn’t mean- Cliff, no I- I’ll quit!” he raises his voice and they both flinch. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it- you gotta stay with me, though, buddy, You g-g-gotta- Well, you ain’t gotta, but, but if you do stay, I’ll quit drinking for good, Cliff I s-swear. Anything you want. I’ll walk brandy, I’ll quit, Ill- I’ll- I’ll- anyth-thing, Cliff. I swear.”

He says nothing for a while, just keeps looking at him. Rick wishes he had his sunglasses on because his face looks just as unreadable without them. “Shit Rick,” he starts slowly, “What’s brought this on?”

“Because- because- because-“ he flails, helpless, how can _he_ explain what _Cliff_ means? Only he’s never doubted Cliff’d be there, even after he was swapped out and just as quickly back in for Francesca. (It’s a level of trust that borders on faith. It’s more than faith, it’s Cliff.) “I rearranged m-my- my whole living room to hide your blood on the- on my carpet.” Rick shrugs. Rick shrugs. He tries to smile. He feels fake, but also saying some shit like _I can’t live without you_ or _the five minutes I lived without you sucked_ wouldn’t be any less fake.

Cliff shrugs back. For a second he thinks he’s going to refuse, or say something like _only if Brandy gets to swim in the pool wherever she wants_ , except he just says, “Okay, I wanna make pancakes now, too.” Like Rick’s not just as if he’s not just done _that_. The casualness makes him angry. It makes him want to cry with relief. He pretends he’s burnt his mouth on the bacon and listens to Cliff talk about whatever, pretending he’s not lost a whole day.

***

“Stop it, man,” Cliff says, pulling Rick’s hands away from the collar of his shirt. “How many auditions have you been to?”

“How many have- have- I been to and n-not got the- got the part?”

“Zero.” which isn’t technically a lie- when _Bounty Law_ finished and the string of movies dried up, Rick never went to an audition that Cliff can remember, just went to parties and watched the telephone and schmoozed and boozed the up-and-coming directors who got younger and younger and left Cliff to watch the telephone when he couldn’t.

“And what about having to- are you sure you’re g-g-gonna be alright, here by yourself?”

Cliff laughs around his cigarette, letting himself sink a little further into the couch cushions and feeling the cool leather press against his skin. “What’s gonna happen to me, huh? I don’t think killer hippies strike twice.”

Rick’s eyes get misty and he punches his shoulder. Hard. “D-don’t f-f-f-fucking joke.”

“Don’t fucking worry, then,” he replies, observing how his friend’s eyes wander over to where the bar sits unused in the corner. It’s been two days and Rick’s held out longer than Cliff thought he would. These past two days have been perhaps the best time of his entire life so far; Sharon Tate stopped by on her way home one night and Rick’s been walking Brandy and doing the grocery shopping without complaining about anything except taxi drivers and LA traffic. All Cliff’s had to do is relax, sit back and ask Rick enough questions in the evenings to keep him outta his own head. And cook- Rick can barely make coffee without incident. Stretching out his legs with hardly even a twinge in his bad hip, he kicks Rick’s knee just so he can complain about him putting his bare feet all over his expensive jeans. “Taxi’s gonna be here soon.”

“Who the fuck cares- why the fuck should I even go, Cliff? Who t-they gonna find to- to- who’s as good a m-match as you? Gonna be a god- a goddamn disaster.”

Like he does every time Rick shows in his self-centred way that he cares despite him knowing it for years now, a smile makes it way over Cliff’s face. A car beeps it’s horn outside and makes them both jump and startles whatever he was about to say out of his mind. “Oh shit!” he turns back to face him and pulls the hem of his leather jacket down. “I’m not ready!”

“Course you are,” in one swift motion he stops Rick’s hands from tugging at the soft brown leather and hands him his bag. “You’re Rick fuckin’ Dalton.” Brandy barks once in agreement, though Cliff keeps her from jumping off the couch and getting dog hair all over his clothes.

“Right,” Rick nods, fumbling with his lighter. Then, “You’re _sure_ you don’t need anyth-th-thing?”

“Got the remote, got Brandy, phone’s plugged back in, I’ll expect you back about five.”

“Right,” Rick nods and goes this time. Cliff watches him walk out the door and can only shake his head fondly.

At his elbow, Brandy barks and he gives her a _look_ as he takes another drag of his cigarette, “Don’t judge me.”

***

Out of the two of them, the romantic idealist is always going to be Rick. Not that he’s particularly romantic or ideal in any way, but just if it’s him or Cliff, he’s the one who suits the role better. So why the hell Cliff thought, after two days- well, four if you were counting since the fucking hippies and after years if you counted from how long they’ve known each other- that now he wasn’t drinking the violent upheavals in Rick’s mood that were so frequent they were nearly regular wouldn’t happen anymore…

Cliff honestly can’t say why he got his fucking hopes up. That’s often the way with Rick; sometimes it’s not that way, though, and those times are really fucking good times, Cliff doesn’t deny it.

Those times throw him off, kinda off balance and out of kilter, waiting for the world to right itself again.

The world feels so good right now though, with Rick’s mouth round his dick. Stuff like this has happened once or twice before; this is the first time that they’ve both been sober and it’s just another time that Rick’s on the upswing. Perhaps Cliff’s a bad friend for letting him do this but, hey, he’s never claimed to be a good friend either. He’s just Cliff and Rick’s just Rick and everything else works itself out. “Holy shit,” he gasps, even though he knows Rick doesn’t really like him talking at times like this; perhaps because it ruins the illusion that he’s not _not_ a woman, because Rick’s never been good with having his illusions shattered.

If Rick hears him, he doesn’t let it show, just carries on giving him the best blowjob of his life so far and talking. That’s one thing Cliff’s never gotten over: how Rick can give the best head imaginable and still never _shut up_. If he thinks about it when he’s level-headed, it’s funny. He never thinks about it when he’s level-headed, who’s he kidding here?

When it’s done, Cliff lets his body sag, glad they did this on the couch so they (he) doesn’t have to change the bed sheets before they turn in. As if half their conversation hasn’t been said round Cliff’s dick in his mouth, Rick stands and carries on telling him all about the audition and the director he bumped into on the way to the parking lot- the one who nearly did _McCluskey_ , then had to pull out, Cliff, you remember him, right? John or Joe or something, says he’s working on this movie-

Cliff doesn’t even pull his pants back on as he carefully stands up and heads into the kitchen to start preparing Brandy’s dinner. Through the window, he can see her jump out of the pool and shake herself dry, water going everywhere as she responds to the whistle she knows means dinner time; he made sure Rick let her out before letting him in his pants, because they were both horny as teenagers but they ain’t neither of them animals. Behind him, over the soft tunes of _Bring a Little Lovin’_ trickling from the record player, Rick’s voice threads in and out of hearing range as he walks round and round the rooms of his house, explaining everything that’s happened to him today down to fine details. Cliff’s never minded before and he sure as he doesn’t mind now, either, just... well, his best buddy’s just sucked him off but they’ve never kissed. He’s entitled to think about that, reflect on that, right?

***

The weather’s really nice today, which makes sense because this is Hollywood, so the weather’s always nice, but what he means is it isn’t too hot today. The heat wave has broken and they’re left with the soft warmth that’s perfect for lounging round the pool and basking in, or so Cliff seems to think- he’s out there when Rick comes searching for the script for the movie he has an audition for tomorrow. (Has he mentioned lately he fucking loves being neighbours and friends with Sharon Tate?) Ripples break slowly over the edges of the pool as Brandy swims round in circles, occasionally high enough to splash Cliff’s toes as he lies on a lounge chair with his arms behind his head, wearing nothing but his jeans. _Except maybe underwear under them_ and then Rick wonders why the hell he needs to think about _that_. He doesn’t, not one bit, turns his attention to the next thing to- to- to Brandy, in the pool, good Brandy, good- Christ, he burnt a fucking hippie in his own pool shit. _Shit_. “Shit,” the letter box bangs and he jumps as metal clangs against metal, thinking of the flame thrower still in the shed.

Outside, Cliff isn’t looking over but rather talking to Brandy. Just barely, Rick can hear his voice through the closed doors and breathes a little easier, digs his toes into the carpet then remembers his kitchen has linoleum floors instead. His voice is so quiet from here it sounds more as if the glass is murmuring, or a radio’s playing next door, in Roman Polanski’s house with it’s very, very big garden and long drive. It’s good, it’s good that Cliff didn’t notice anything’s wrong- he’d send Brandy to come and look and then there’d be wet dog prints all over his carpet. Rick leans more onto the edge of the kitchen counter, _what did I come in here for, again?_ The script- it _was_ a script, right? He needs to learn his lines. He needs to plug the phone back in, else someone’ll call and he won’t answer it and he won’t get the part. _What part?_ He doesn’t know. He asks himself again: _what fucking part, Rick?_

Next time he blinks, someone’s coloured the sky in the wrong colour-it’s all pink. Goddamn it, don’t they know it can’t be pink in the middle of the day?

“Hey, partner,” Cliff’s voice. When he looks, Cliff isn’t outside by the pool anymore, he’s behind him. “What d’you want for dinner?”

Rick scrubs his eyes and turns round- slowly- feeling dizzy and about as real as he did the first time they did a night shoot on _Bounty Law_. “I don’t- I don’t mind. Have you seen my-“

His vision burns white-hot. Cliff is holding the script up too close to his face to read the title. “Thanks,” he accepts it shakily and remembers the mail’s come. Pushing off from the kitchen counter, pushing off from the edge of the pool, pushing off from the side of the trailer about to head on home, he remembers the mail’s come and heads for the front door. There’s no indication Cliff’s noticed anything amiss. He hates him. He loves him. He doesn’t feel anything for him- why should he? Nothing’s wrong, after all. _How long have I been standing here?_ He remembers the mail’s come and goes and fetches it.

It’s only one envelope- brown and bulky, kind of like Brandy in a way- and addressed to him so he opens it, because that’s what envelopes are for; there’s no stamp so must’ve been hand-delivered, which is weird and also makes him feel important. Just enough time to think he’s being real logical about all this, a real detective- hey, I need to call Sam about that movie offer and then he reads the first page and it’s divorce papers, _she really went and did it, huh?_

“Did I tell you... Schwartz called, when you were out... told him to... fucked right the hell off, I- Rick?... Rick?... What’s...”

Everything sounds like he’s underwater but the only water is the pool and he’s not in the pool, hasn’t gone near the thing since the police drained it- they leave the flamethrower but drain his pool, what the fuck? When Cliff limps his way to his side and puts a hand on his shoulder, he expects it to burn; the way it always does when he’s upset and Cliff makes it right again. Instead, he just feels a friend’s hand on his shoulder that slides down to his elbow and guides him to sit on the couch. He looks down- no, he was never looking up, he’s not moved his head- expecting to see the pool of blood he couldn’t get out of the carpet no matter how many hours he knelt there scrubbing. His knees burn and his fingers burn, remembering. Rick waits and waits for it all to _hit_ , waits for the tide to sweep him away. Part of him can’t wait for that part, because then he gets to bury his face in Cliff’s shoulder and he won’t have to come back up for air. Cliff lets out a long, low whistle in the background, Brandy’s ears perk up. They did that same shot on _Tanner_ once, but it didn't make the cut. “Divorce papers, huh?”

“Annulment,” Rick corrects automatically, fidgeting with his fingers, wondering if he has time to grab a cigarette before it _hits_. He laughs, “God, she’s been gone f-f-four days, C-Cliff, what the- what the fuck? You can-can get divorce papers so quick- that’s H-holl-Hollywood, for ya, old buddy. Jesus Christ.”  
“Yeah.” He’s watching him closely. “You need a drink?”

Rick thinks as deep as he dares without sinking and is surprised to find that “No,” he doesn’t. “What’s for dinner?” Not that he’s hungry, but it’s something else to think about.

“I was thinking pasta. Or Mac and Cheese. I'm feeling lazy tonight, you want Mac and Cheese?”

“Mac and Cheese. Right.” Cliff’s nowhere to be seen- the kitchen. He’s gone to the kitchen, and Rick scoots his ass forward on the edge of the cushions and flicks through the papers. There’s not very many- he always thought, well the films always show a stack of papers, don’t they? As it turns out, there’s a copy for him to keep and a copy for him to mail back with his signature and- there’s even a fucking _instruction manual_. Two typed up pages that don’t have to speak to say ‘sign here’ in a voice dull like metal. “Yeah, Mac and Cheese for dinner sounds fine.” He didn't stutter, _you didn't stutter!_ Rick shuts up before he can say anything else and ruin his winning streak. There’s a plate on the coffee table in front of him, then Cliff on the couch next to him, looking at him, just looking at him. Where’s Brandy?

If Cliff isn’t worried, Rick won’t be either. He looks at the Mac and Cheese, his new coffee table, whole where the hippie’s face cracked the old one. It’s not _hit_ yet, he doesn’t think there’ll be time to eat before all his food before it _hits_ him, though he wants Cliff to finish his own meal before it does, because when it does it’s going to hurt.

If it weren’t for the skin over his bones, he’d have floated away already.

Cliff’s finished his pancakes. Rick slides his place over and asks what ‘alimony’ means. Cliff takes the plate and the papers and tells him what all the words mean, his voice and long lines of words streak through Rick’s head, going on for a long time. Like the open road disappearing underneath the wheels of a car.

When he blinks again, water is spilling over his hands, wet and cold and hot and Cliff is eating the rest of his Mac and Cheese, completing his divorce papers for him in between bites. He can hear him explaining how he answered the phone to Schwarz earlier when Rick was out and told him to fuck off, but he hasn’t heard a word.

He needs to get his back door fixed, although that’d mean letting someone into his house. He writes it on the list of Cliff’s jobs for tomorrow before he forgets, leaving a wet half-moon on the paper. Cliff looks up, looks at him then goes back to what he was doing (what was he doing?). Starts the story again from the beginning, about answering the phone to Schwarz earlier.

Expecting the phone to ring and Francesca to pour down the phone in turquoise rivers of fast Italian, he goes back and sits next to Cliff, unable to focus on the news broadcast thrumming lowly but needing it on to stay afloat. Far above, almost so high it touches the light bulb, a window in Sharon’s house glows like a cigarette cherry.

“Why don’t I invite her round to- round to dinner?” he asks without looking at Cliff.

“Francesca?”

“Yeah and... and Sharon and Jay. They won’t have any time aft-t-ter the baby’s born, will they?”

He raises his eyebrows, “Guess not.”

Rick realises suddenly they’re not on the couch; they’re in bed lying side by side and he _thinks_ he’s fully clothed, still, except for his shoes and pulls the sheets up higher. “Brandy not comin’?”

“Nah,” the laughter in his voice feels like another blanket over the top of them. Rick breathes deeper and sinks lower. “She’s tired of us tossing and turning. She’s taking the couch.”

“Oh.” Is this meant to mean something? Because they’ve only slept in the same bed _maybe_ once, which was last night, because last night Cliff came home from the hospital after the fucking hippies and he _knows_ , he knows Cliff sleeps like the dead (he’s not dead though, he’s not, thank fuck, Rick doesn’t know what he’d do if he was). Is this meant to mean something- is he meant to approach something, now Brandy isn’t here and it’s just the two of them in Rick’s bed? White noise is buzzing in his mind, like snow. White noise on the TV screen is the closest they get to snow in Hollywood, it’s not like Missouri- though Rick knows nothing about Missouri except it’s the place he’s from when people ask.

Cliff laughs, soft and gentle, “Go to sleep, partner, I know you ain’t been sleepin’ too good.”

“Okay. Wait- did you _really_ tell that guy to fuck off, earlier?”

“Yeah, well, you were out and I was...”

He falls asleep waiting for it to _hit._

(Sometime before he gets up in the morning, Cliff’s got rid of any sign of the divorce papers except the plain brown envelope hidden beneath the pile of magazines on the table by the front door; he’ll mail it back to the expensive attorney’s address that was stamped on the back of the papers in fancy gold lettering when he goes to get groceries. Rick’s grateful- it lets him focus on the important part of inviting his neighbours and ex-wife to dinner. Cliff doesn’t get an invite, because Cliff coming is a given. Dinner goes great and Cliff likes them, just like Rick said he would. _I told you Cliff! ((_ this is after they’ve left)) _Didn’t I t-t-t-tell you, Goddamit!_ )

***

Perhaps it’s his own fault for letting his guard down, or maybe there really _is_ a pattern to all this after all and someone high up’s out go get him. Either way, Cliff’s sure these ain’t the thoughts a guy usually has when he comes round on the bathroom floor, dog licking his face. Pain lances up his hip every time he breathes in and he can’t tell if the damp feeling’s just from the shower or if he’s ripped his stitches. “Ah fuck,” he grunts. Brandy barks softly in reply and he reaches up to pet her, cursing himself for never teaching her how to make a phone call.

The thought makes him laugh, which makes more pain erupt up his side like an electric fence turning on. “Fuck.” Fucking hippies. Fucking wet floors. Fucking Rick, for never getting a bath mat. Fucking fuck. Staying here on the floor all day isn’t an option, yet it’s the only option.

Unless Brandy could boost him up...

Quickly, the logistic of a plan shoot through Cliff’s head and just as quickly he dismisses it. He’d have to put a hand on her back and he’s worry his weight would crush her.

Bathroom floor it is then. Shit.

He jumped in the shower maybe an hour earlier after Rick left for today’s shoot- some cameo in some movie, then an audition for a role opposite Steve McQueen at the set across the street. And Rick had left at seven. Which means a long day, no other way about it.

Cliff sighs, mentally filing the shopping list away for tomorrow’s list of chores instead. He supposes he could get Brand to fetch him a towel or a blanket, but in all honest he doesn’t need it. Rick’s bathroom’s hardly the worst place to be stuck: it’s warm enough, no chance of danger, Brandy can fetch a can of dog food herself so she won’t go hungry. The only real problem is the groceries won’t get done and Cliff’ll get hungry, and when Rick comes home he’ll freak out which hey, there’s like an eighty percent chance Rick’ll come home and freak out on a normal day, so that’s nothing he can’t handle.

He pats Brandy’s head and accepts the lick to his cheek, trying one last time to at least even sit up on his elbows so he can scoot his ass outta here and- ends up flat on his back again, panting through the pain.

Bathroom floor it is, then. _Huh, I’ve had worse_.

Before Cliff lets himself start to _think_ , he encourages Brandy to go back to sniffing... whatever she was sniffing with a grunt and once she’s gone lets himself relax. Moving tomorrow’s gonna be a bithch, with how stiff he’ll be, that’s for damn certain. Rick can do his own damn shopping this once- Cliff’ll spend tomorrow lounging in the pool with Brandy. _Assuming Rick don’t drag my ass back to the hospital_. He remembers the other day he moved wrong getting his pants off and it didn't hurt as bad as this.

Maybe this is it then: maybe he’ll have a limp now, not from the fucking hippies but slipping in the shower like an old man and he’ll be out the stunt double game forever. Cliff can cope with that- he _can_ , it’s just... does that also equate to being out of Rick’s life forever? ‘Cuz that’s... that ain’t a nice thought. And Rick ain’t the type of guy who keeps another guy on just because he saved his life, who’s he kidding?

Never mind that he did, or that he is- both those times coincide with wives making fortunate disappearances and both those times can so easily mean nothing.

Not that he’s got no faith in Rick, no, just he sure as fuck wasn’t lying when he said Rick’s the best job he ever had.

What the fuck’s he gonna be, if he cant be Rick’s stunt double? Is he gonna hang around a set all day and be his emotional support dog?

Dammnit it he would, Cliff admits to himself. He really, really would.

-

There’s two moons in the sky. Cliff blinks. Rick’s eyes are swimming with fear. He aches to stretch- hey, if he’s stuck on the floor all day, he might as well take a well-deserved nap, right?- and holds onto the instinct tight, knowing how the movement will pull his hip and make it hurt more. “Good day at work?” he asks, hoping his dick doesn’t react to being completely naked with Rick over him.

Rick’s face twists downwards, Cliff can’t see his hands but he knows they must be _itching_ to do something. Make a whiskey sour, probably. “Why the f-f-fuck are you on my- on- lying on the floor?”

He shrugs, slow and easy, “Just napping.”

He can physically pinpoint the exact moment the younger man cottons on. “Fuck!” he says, probably louder than he meant to. Claws patter across the hallway and Brandy appears at the door- probably she jumped on Rick the second he got in, barking at him to follow. _Such a good girl_. “Oh f-fuck, Cliff, oh shit. D’you- do you n-need me to call an ambulance?”

He kneels down next to him, seemingly uncaring of the water asking into his jeans or his shoes, one hand next to his elbow on the cold tiles and the other lingering over his shoulder, waiting to touch, waiting to be told what to do.

There’s a level of honest worry in his eyes which, whilst it’s not _new_ to Cliff by any means, is at a level of intensity which _is_ and it’s this combined with the fact he’s spent all day lying on the bathroom floor which makes him genuinely consider the question for all of five seconds. He drinks in the care in Rick’s expression and explores the sharp teeth of agony biting down on his hip. “Help me sit up?” he asks and immediately has two strong hands on his shoulders, snaking round his back.

The pain as he changes position for the first time in- eight? nine?- hours is sharp, but it’s bearable. Shaking his head, Cliff switches tracks to focus on Rick, “Nah, I don’t need an ambulance.”

The worry doesn’t abate and neither do the tears, “God-d-damnit, Cliff, you better not be l-lying to me!”

“I’m not man, I swear.” Standing on his own is still out of the equation and he falls back to sit on his ass with a huff. “Help me up?”

For the first time in a while, Rick surprises him- he does that, on occasion, it’s kinda nice- by _picking him up and carrying him to the sofa_. _Does he realise I'm still naked_ he wonders, fighting to keep the grin off his face. Best not to mention it, huh?

Cliff isn’t the type of guy who bullshits himself: it’s not like in the movies. He weighs a tonne and carrying him isn’t a task a guy like Rick can do easy and he’s panting by the end of the short journey, tobacco-smelling breath hot on the side of his cheek. Still nice, though. Thoughtful in the way Rick Dalton usually ain’t.

(Cliff himself has, for various reasons, picked Rick up and carried him three times- four, if their memories of Vegas are to be believed. If he needs to run well, shit, he only loves what he can carry and he’ll carry either Rick or Brandy, with the other running next to him. Most of his dreams end like that, these days. The bad dreams end before he knows if they outrun whatever’s behind them.)

“I’ve gotta fall over more often,” he laughs, not really meaning to say it out loud but meaning every word.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Ah shit, buddy,” he raises his hands in mock surrender, cracking up a bit harder as Rick realises he’s naked. “Was only jokin’. I'm fine.”

“No you ain’t..”

“Sure I am.” He pats the stitches in his hip gently “See?”

They’re out of the danger zone now, he knows by the way Rick’s crossing the line from worried to pissed off, the annoyed tone as he mutters “let me fucking see that” and then gets very close to make sure he hasn’t ripped any stitches. He declares he _hasn’t_ , swears some more and then raises his head and kisses him. On the mouth. Cliff just has the time to think ‘what the hell’ and start to reciprocate when he finishes it, yanking away so hard he slips off the edge of the couch and falls hard on his ass on the carpet, staring up at him with wide eyes and mussed up hair.

“What the hell-“ he begins, in the opposite one to how Cliff was just thinking. “Oh shit,” he says softly, starting to cry. “Oh sh-shit, Cliff, I’m sorry, I’ll-“

“ _Hey_ ,” the world starts making sense to Cliff now like the sun coming out and the sky turning a clear, beautiful blue. He leans forward and grasps Rick’s shoulders. “Hey, man, it’s okay. I’ve been-“ he breathes out, surprised to find he’s smiling. “I’ve been waiting on that a long time.”

“Oh _shit_ , really?” the look on his face is something else- something outta this world. Cliff laughs, because he’s been looking at that face for years and now it’s all out in the open. “You think I let just anyone suck my dick?”

Making a sound that isn’t a word, Rick surges forward and kisses him; gives Cliff time to kiss back this time, the feel of it awkward and unusual because they’re both still grinning.

“I thought,” Rick gasps for air once it’s ended. “I thought after- after Italy.”

“Says the guy who got married in Italy.”

“I had to!” he’s earnest, beseeching, believing himself the way Rick always does and the way Cliff’s loved for years and years. “I had to—fuck, it all m-made sense at the time. But now...” he frowns, lines appearing on his furrowed brow and Cliff marvels at how he’s allowed to rub them away with the pad of his thumb. Rick looks equally delighted as he strokes up and down the scars on his arms, “None of it makes no sense, now.”

He bites back a comment about how it’s always like that once the divorce papers are signed and lets Rick kiss him again and uses it as a distraction to pull him down on top of him on the couch, feeling the cool leather of hid jacket against his skin and the fierce grip of Rick’s fingers on his shoulders. Once of them digs his hip into an awkward position and his groan breaks the kiss, Rick moving back at once, panic on his face until Cliff waves it away. “It’s fine. We just won’t be fucking tonight.”

Rick scoffs sarcastically, expression overload with one of immense fondness. “Fucking God- Goddamnit. That’s the shittiest reassurance I ever heard. You’re l-lucky I l-love- that I love y-you.”

Cliff grins, “Ain’t I just?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so now I've posted this I can discuss the idea I had: Rick and Marilyn Monroe parallels anybody?

Four weeks to the day since the fucking hippies kicked his life upside down and sent it rolling back into normal speed again ( _whilst on fire_ ) Rick marks the anniversary by arriving on set on time- mainly thanks to Cliff, who’s been cleared for driving and waves goodbye from the driver’s seat as he stumbles in the direction of his trailer. He’s not hung-over, but eight in the morning is still a bitch of a time to be awake. The Cadillac speeds off towards... wherever Cliff goes all day and Rick tries not to feel like he’s just going through the motions.

The producer collars him on the way, turns him by the elbow to introduce him to the guy who’s going to be stunt doubling for him this week and- sure, he shakes his hand, nods politely, remembers his name for all of a minute, but he knows even without seeing the guy at work that he sure as fuck ain’t Cliff. Smiling, he lights a cigarette and waits to leave.

Eventually, it comes and hey, wadda you know? His trailer’s still here, everything’s still here, just as he left it on Friday, just as he left it Thursday. Etcetera et fucking cetera.

If anyone’d told him that acting’d get boring, Rick doesn’t think he’d have quit drinking. (He still would have- for Cliff- but he’d have had to think about it). He lights another cigarette and doesn’t take a drag until it’s burnt halfway down, making camera dolly tracks in the ashtray that scatter with a flick of his hand and then going back to his lines, because they’re the only thing that actually stays in his head. This week’s the last week of filming, then he’s got another three weeks at some other studio for a shoot and they all seem pointless. Oh sure, put him in front of the camera and he’ll be the best ‘forlorn pencil pusher with a secret to hide’ there ever was. But if it ain’t Cliff pretending to be him that’s jumping out that window, everything seems kinda goddamn pointless. Like driving down the strip at night- and Rick _knows_ this is true because Cliff took him once, when they both still had a license- looking at the strip, past midnight, way into the morning. All the signs are still on, neon blaring so bright you can’t see the starts and nearly miss how all the shops and restaurants and bars are closed and empty and dark.

“Five minutes!” calls a runner outside- not for him, though, he discovers, when the kids comes and tells him they’re ready for him in Costume.

“Right.” Everything fast forwards, until he finally breathes again and walks off the set, going to sitout of shot on a pile of old tyres, looking towards the space between background cut outs where his stunt double’s approaching to jump out the office window. Halfway through the action shot, he realises it’s Cliff. The shock makes him drop his cigarette. On his book. He’s so occupied making sure nothing catches _on fire_ that he doesn’t look up again until the director’s shouting ‘Cut!’ and Cliff’s rolling off the dumpster lid and hitting the ground without breaking stride, approaching where Rick’s sat, gawping. He’s wearing the same costume a d a big, stupid grin on his face.

“You goddamn b-bastard,” Rick says, handing over his pack of _Lucky Strikes_.

Cliff lights one round his smile, “Gee, partner, good to see you too.”

***

“You, uh, you hear what Joe was s-sayin’, in Wardrobe earlier, ‘bout what was in the p-p-paper?”

 _About the faggots who got caught_ Cliff thinks. All he says is, “Yeah.”  
  
Rick’s face twists down but strangely, he doesn’t seem like he’s about to start crying and Cliff’s about to start needing to do damage control. “D-didn’t it, I mean- don’t it ever... bother you?”  
  
What that means is its bothering Rick. Either the full weight of carrying on an elicit homosexual affair and what it could mean for his career has just hit him or he’s finally admitting to himself he’s always been a bit queer, even before he left Missouri. Fortunately, Cliff knows how to do his job very well and it comes easier than breathing. (It comes as instinct, even when he’s high off his ass and three hippies are pointing guns at his face.) “Nah man,” he replies. “It’s never bothered me.”

  
The way Rick looks at him, something like awe or wonder, well that really shouldn’t be allowed. “Never? Not even- not ev-v-ven growing up?”This coming from a guy who don’t remember nothing of his life before Hollywood.  
  
Cliff does remember _before_ , he just doesn’t think about it. He thinks about the here and now. Most things from before Rick don’t matter; those that do are his instincts that tell him when to get the hell outta Dodge. “Nah. Figured anyone who’d prefer me murderin’ my wife than being some sorta queer ain’t worth listening to.” Which is true but it’s not the truth. Or Cliff’s truth. He just... doesn’t care. Maybe that’s the ‘sociopath’ bit the army wrote on his file. He don’t care about that either.  
  
“Okay,” Rick says like Cliff’s just righted his universe. Just like that. He ain’t got a limp and Rick’s not breaking down. Damn, where’s the catch in all this? His head tilts as if he’s only just realised something. “Did you kill your wife?”  
  
Cliff tilts his head, “Don’t think so.”He didn’t, probably. He’d remember, if he did. He’s an old-fashioned romantic like that.  
  
“Okay.” He shrugs and asks if he can borrow his lighter- “Left my m-m-matches in my jeans at Wardrobe.”

Cliff relaxes but doesn’t breathe out for the rest of the day. There’s gotta be a catch somewhere.

***

“Oh _shit_!” the only god thing about this is the smoke alarm ain’t going off. He doesnt have a smoke alarm, he should maybe look into that. Seems like a fire hazard.

An amused voice wafts over from the kitchen doorway in the same way the delicious yellow smells do in cartoons. “The hell’d you do? Place looks like a bomb’s hit it.”

Rick swears and stutters over it. Swears some more. “’Spose you’d know, wouldja?”

His jaw clenches and that blank look falls over his face, “’Spose I would.”

“Ah, shit, Cliff, I- I didn't mean- I was just t-trying to make us pan-pancakes.” Taking in the mss around him, Rick has to concede that Cliff’s right. (Again.) Flour covers every surface like they’ve had one of _those_ kinds of parties, pots and pans overflow the sink and he’s currently using the oldest, rustiest pan in his collection that he can’t remember ever buying. A trail of his failed pancakes leading in a burnt, smelling spiral round to him at the centre, starting with the first four burnt attempts in the trash and the umpteenth attempt he’s got curdling on the stove which isn’t starting to look much better.

“Pancakes?” as always, Cliff’s the patient face of God, watching serenely from afar.

“Yeah,” dammnit he can feel his eyes starting to well up at what a shitty cook he is. It’s not like he’s a damn housewife here, Jesus. “W-wanted- wanted to make us breakfast in b-b-bed.”  
“Rick, it’s two in the afternoon.”

Rick hangs his head, feeing a burning shame starting at his gut and slowly rising like lava in a volcano he wouldn’t _mind_ , but it don’t even explode out of him with fury, just makes him cry and be pathetic. “Hey,” One big, strong, calloused hand grips his chin and makes him look up. His head swims with Cliff’s scent; he could be the leading actress, swooning for the handsome leading man. “It was a real nice thought. I’m touched.” The soft, calm look on his face sweeps over his worry white like warm milk. “But you can’t cook for shit.”

Laughing comes easy; he expects it’s come _too_ easy and braces himself for the flood of tears yet nothing happens. He just stays like that waiting on shit to happen until Cliff rolls his eyes and kisses him. Rick grins sheepishly, “Shall I just make us some cereal?”

He nods, laughs too, kisses him again and meanders easily back towards the bedroom, naked by the time Rick brings two bowls of cereal.

***

Though he’ll never say it out loud- like, _really properly_ say it, he means- Cliff likes when he’s not actually required for stunt work and can just sit on the side of a set, outta shot and watch Rick do _his_ job and act. Dare he sound sentimental: it’s nice. And no, that ain’t just because it gives him a break from being the stable one, though it’s a nice change of pace. Rick is Rick fucking Dalton for a reason and that reason is because he can fucking act. If it were possible for him to forget where he is, which is never fucking possible but if, it’s when he’s watching Rick act out a scene and for five, ten, twelve minutes the dirt under his palms is the dusty high street, dank alleyway, blood-torn field and Rick’s burning right through the middle of it all on fire.

They’ve settled down- as much as someone in this city settles. Fucking hippies are good for something and Rick’s handed the leading role opposite Steve McQueen in his new film, so they’ve been working at this set for near enough six weeks, with wrap up scheduled in another five. Cliff lets himself get comfy, in all assorts of ways. Just because he doesn’t like to be tied down doesn’t mean he’s opposed to staying still in one place. Just wants to know he can jump unheeded if everything goes to shit. A good soldier, he supposes, hoo boy does he appreciate the irony of that now. Sleep where the fuck you can and sleep properly, yet jump awake at the first sign of danger. That’s the only rule that stuck with him.

Well, one outta ninety five ain’t bad.

Nicotine floods over his tongue and Cliff lounges back against the side of a car, remembering Bruce Lee with a fond smile and savouring how cigarettes remind him of the taste of Rick. Funny how that happens when you kiss a smoker, huh? The weather’s turned from warm to boiling and he appreciates his shady spot, observing Rick and McQueen’s characters tied up back to back in the full weight of the sun and bickering, bouncing off each other. Cliff never pays much attention to what’s in the scripts but he’s fairly sure they crossed into improve about five minutes back and he’s yet to hear the director yell ‘cut!’ He starts to pay closer attention, thinking through the hot air thick enough to choke on, matching snippets of dialogue to the glitch sounds from Rick’s tape recorder last night, nodding his head to the natural rhythm of the trapped pair’s conversation.

From experience, hostages do _not_ act or talk anything like this but it’s gonna make for a great movie. Two cops who try and solve a case by themselves, get caught and are forced to free themselves and work together, complete with snappy dialogue?

Yeah, they’re gonna lap this one right up.

“Why I oughta-“

“The only reason you can stand after those punches I landed on you’s because of your thick skull!”

“The only reason you landed ‘em’s cuz I let you, don’t kid yourself!”

“That’s rich coming from the guy who thought he could solve this case all by himself!”

“Sorry, I missed the backup you had when I found _you_ by the docks alone. How stupid of me- Swat Team’s ‘bouta swoop in and save us any minute now!”

“When I get my arms loose ‘m gonna shove those snarky comments of yours right up your ass.”

“I’d goddamn like to see you try, Detective d-d-dum- Godamnit!”

Cliff winces as Rick messes up, not because it’s uncommon (it’s weird watching him in front of a camera because he’s so used to his stutter) but because of how the back of his head collides with McQueen’s and the exhale hissing though his teeth isn’t just from the pain. He’s leant forward where he sits without hardly realising it, cigarette frozen between his teeth, ready to stand up and follow in Rick’s wake to his trailer, let him have a good cry and cut it short before it leaves his eyes red.

“Cut!” yells the director. He prepares his best stone-cold glare for anyone who shoots a _look_ his partner’s way. The _fucking actors_ one that means ‘go tame your buddy’.

Something’s wrong though- the blood is thrumming through his veins and he’d be on the edge of his seat if he had a seat; it’s like the fog rolling in as the tide goes out. First you inhale sharply, thinking everything’s disappeared, then you realise the sea’s still there, cool and still same as it ever was for miles in every direction. Rick scrubs a hand over his face- which answers Cliff’s question of ‘are they really tied together?’ at least- pushes his hair out the way and nod at the director, perhaps avoids meeting Cliff’s gaze.

Cliff forces himself to sit back again, gives him a little wave slash salute of acknowledgement when he does look over. He hasn’t got the time to smile before he’s focusing on the director again around the pink mohair jumper of Cathy from Hair and Makeup as she fixes him up to carry on.

“Action!” the scene carries on perfectly until the end. Cliff feels his hopes building.

***

Him and Cliff, they just fit together. Rick’s on fire, with parts and roles and auditions and parties and parts he didn't have to audition for; the blood’s outta his carpet and he’s Rick fucking Dalton, burning whilst Cliff smiles patiently, blue like calm water as they drive home. tonight’s been great- a party at some bastard’s house out on the beach that he was invited to, with Cliff as his plus one and Rick’s gotta admit he’s still a _little_ high either from the atmosphere or the copious amounts of weed that was being smoked by everyone. In the driver’s seat, Cliff chuckles at whatever it was he just said and Rick beams, smiling brighter than the neon lights shredding the strip as they pass. The Shirelles blast over the radio and the whole city buzzes sodium outside, white-heat strong enough to burn the stars outta the sky. They take the long route home, when it’s quiet like this and Cliff no longer has to hurry on back to Van Nuys to feed Brandy, their desire to stay like this a little longer takes them all over, until at one point Rick can see the _Hollywood_ sign if he looks up.

 _The magic of your sighs..._ Cliff isn’t quite singing along, but he’s humming enthusiastically under the weight of the Bloody Mary’s he had at the party and Rick laughs, teases him about something or other that goes out his head the second he says it, too occupied thinking maybe all of this is how they know they’ve made it: driving home together, winding their way up the hills the _Hollywood_ sign sits on. Pictures this as a movie; music playing, the camera panning out from the two of them to show the car slowly getting smaller and smaller as it moves away- the car not the camera- and the last the audience sees of them is Rick’s Cadillac small enough to be mistaken for a star disappearing behind the _Hollywood_ sign lit up brighter than the stars or anything else.

Cliff glances across at him, clocks the look on his face and laughs, looks back to check the road ahead and then looks over again, laugh tinkling on the dark blue night air; Rick can just make out his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, “What’re you smiling at?”

“You,” he replies.

Cliff’s just asked him whos’ walking Brandy this afternoon.

Cliff nods, chewing on his cigarette as he polishes his boots at the coffee table- Rick can see his face reflected in the well-worn leather. Blurred. Moonlight on the water only somebody’s already bled to death in it. He has a distinct instinct that that’s the wrong answer but he’s sure, he’s _sure_ he walked Brandy last night. “H-how about... ‘bout both of us take her?” he suggests tentatively. He trimmed Cliff’s hair for him earlier, at the guy’s own request, not his suggestion, only the slightest bit, but he can still feel the soft snips clinging to his fingers when he rubs them together, soft like whispers.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Great!” he goes finds his jacket- though he’s not sure why, because the sun’s out. Appearances. Fucking actors. Fucking appearances. Fucking hippies. Fucking Cliff. Won’t it be kinda... funny, though, two guys walking a dog together?

He poses the question to Cliff through the bathroom door, listening to him piss with his lighter in one hand, Brandy’s leash in the other and a cigarette in his mouth. “Gee, buddy, why’d that be funny?”

And the world makes sense again. He chuckles, so light the sound floats out of him nearly against his will. “No reason. No r-reason at all.”

“Well then,” the door opens and he’s met with just a grin. “Away we go.”

It’s a tumble of keys, sunglasses and Brandy pulling at her leach, nose to the ground and sniffing the pavement. “Shit, Cliff, you a-always say that. That your- ‘s that your fuckin’ catchphrase something?”

He shrugs, slow and easy- Ricks often imagined how that must feel, not being crammed into your own body with anxiety, with room for yourself under your own skin, a life where you completely fill yourself up. (A tiny dim corner of his brain recognises _there’s something wrong here_ , that isn’t entirely truthful, but the sun’s out and he’s maybe a tiny bit jealous. The difference between him and Cliff is so big that some things just get lost in the abyss. The dusty bulb illuminating the noir detective’s little corner full of books and his desk pulls the switch on itself and goes out. Just blame the fucking hippies Rick, case closed.)

“I don’t know... I can’t remember a time I ain’t said it. It’s about excitement, I guess.”

“D’you think y-y-you heard it in the war?”

Here he shoots him a _look_. Patient and still. “Maybe. Why?”

He shrugs, averts his eyes, watches the pavement over the cloud of cigarette smoke in front of him. “Francesca said- said- said- God fucking dammnit!” he scrubs a hand over his face roughly, glares at the guy who’s got the misfortune to be glancing over at him. Wonders if he can punch himself in the mouth.

“Whoa- hey-“ there’s little they can _do_ in public without kissing their careers goodbye and never has he hated that as much as he does now, when all Cliff can do is knock their shoulders together as he swallows down tears. Even Brandy turns her head and whines a little at the electric storm clouds rolling low in the air.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he hisses before Cliff can pull him off into a quiet little spot. “Don’t cry in f-f-front of the Mexicans, I g-get it.”

He shakes his head, as if he weren’t gonna say that at all. _Lair_.

“It’s okay.”

“Yeah. I am.” It doesn’t feel like a lie, it doesn’t feel like the truth. It feels...

Shit, never mind how the fuck it feels. Fuck.

“Yeah, you are. What were you sayin’ bout Francesca again?”

They pass by a liquor store and cross the street into the park, “That, uh, she said- told me, the other week about this movie her friend’s th-thinking of doin’. About the war and shit. You could... you could try for it.”

He blinks in surprise, watching Brandy with his mouth a thin straight line. Doesn’t even give himself time to think before he answers “Why the hell would I wanna do that?”

“She just said!” Rick raises his voice, defensively, unsure if he really needs to justify his ex-wife’s decisions to his best buddy but deciding he’s too far down the road to turn back now. “And- and- why the hell wouldn’t you wanna do that?”

Shrugging, he takes it as the question it isn’t, shrugs the whole _thing_ off and the sky goes back to blue again. “Who’d be your stunt man, if I were busy acting?”

“M-maybe I’d be yours!” why the hell is he defending this idea so vociferously? He _likes_ his life how it is now, why would he wanna ruin all this?

Cliff thinks about it a long time before he answers. Long enough they’ve walked halfway round the park by the time he does. “Nah,” he speaks up eventually. “I ain’t cut out for acting, partner. I like things just as they are.”

Rick opens his mouth to say something stupid like ‘me too’ or- or- just something stupid and thankfully doesn’t get the chance, distracted but the girl he sees approaching over Cliff’s shoulder. “Shi- _shoot_ , it’s Mirabella.”

She rolls her eyes, stops in front of a confused Cliff and crosses her arms, doesn’t offer and to shake, “I suppose as we’re off set you may call me Trudi.”

He grins, gets partway through explaining to Cliff who she is, then remembers he probably shouldn’t smoke around a child and takes both their cigarettes and stubs them out and has to start again. “C-Cliff, this here’s Trudi. She was on _L-Lancer_.”

He does a thing with his eyebrows and nods a greeting, “Nice to meet you.”

Trudi regards him regally, uncaring of the old bald guy who’s hurrying across the grass calling after her. “I know who you are. You’re his stunt double.”

If an eight year old with pigtails who could pass for a character from _Children of the Damned_ startles him, he doesn’t let it show. _Ain't cut out for acting my ass_. “That’s right. Hey- don’t we know you from somewhere?”

Rick realises the old bald guy’s arrived on the scene, panting and looking at Mira- Trudi, _Trudi_ like the errant child she technically is. he squints at the red face- Cliff’s right, because he could swear he’s familiar from… “ _Bounty Law_?”

“Cliff?” Clearly the guy recognises them, too. “Rick.”

Wait- wait- “Sam?” His memories are in black and white; Sam was never exactly- he was never exactly far up in set hierarchy, a steadfast coffee maker who was never gonna rise any higher because he liked just making coffee (hey, _Bounty Law_ was so successful a guy could make a living making coffee. Rick’s real proud of that) much to the consternation of his wife. His wife…. His wife was head of hair and makeup, and if he remembers right was forever talking about how she was about to become a grandmother last season. Shit- everyone she got in the chair got their ears talked off. Rick’s fairly sure he had a say in what colour the nursery was painted. Damn.

“Well damn,” Sam echoes brightly, sticking his hand out to shake- first Cliff, then Rick. “Ain’t it sure been a while- how you guys been?”

“Eh” Cliff shrugs and tugs Brandy’s head to get her to heel. “The usual. Ups and downs.”

“I saw about the- uh, in the paper, you know.”

All three of them nod sagely. The moment stretches on, a great huge thin long airport corridor all in white where they’re gonna be stuck forever. Trudi doesn’t let the moment carry on and Rick snaps back onto the right train track, plunging forward in the conversation with a splash the size a hippie makes before she burns to death. He stutters and only catches bits of what she says.

“Now, _Trudi_ ,” hisses Sam, eyes darting between the two of them and his granddaughter with a _look_. “You can’t just-“

“Well s-sure we can, if- if we- if you don’t mind, that is.”

At his side, Cliff shrugs noncommittally and finishes what he was meant to say. “We don’t mind if not.”

The trees wave their fingers and beckon him to come play. What the fuck?

Trudi insists, says something to Sam about how he weren’t gonna enjoy himself anyway, and Sam agrees with unconcealed unhappiness which only makes Brandy paw the ground and Trudi scoff with derision. “Let’s go.”

“ _And away we go_ ” mouths Cliff as they follow a precocious girl and a coffee maker out the park and into the buzzing black wasp cloud of the city streets.

“Wait…” he gets very, very closes so he can speak very, very quietly, “Where are w-we goin’ ag-g- again?”

“Dinner.”

“With them?” he nods after swinging pigtails and a shuffling old gait.

“Yeah. There’s a restaurant, down on Fifth that’s showing the moon landing thing. Can’t remember the name. He were gonna take Trudi there anyway.”

He nods, remembering now, the voice in his own head warping to match the memories that are meant to be there. _I need to study something awe-inspiring and- more importantly- the crowd it gathers. An actor must have experience of a range of emotions before they can act_.

“I didn’t r-realise we were even- even- that we were gonna- we were going to the- to the moon again.” Oh shit, he said that out loud and the restaurant can hear.

Sam laughs and coffee spills over the rim of his mug, “Been busy, huh?”

“Real busy,” Cliff agrees, stirring an ungodly amount of sugar into his latte. A habit he picked up in Italy.

Sam had done a _thing_ with his eyebrows when they both ordered coffee, but hey, you can’t drink around a kid now, can you? That’s the only reason he ordered coffee and then it appeared in his hand, burning his palm.

Mirabella was cajoled into indulging with an ice cream soda and the condensation seeps into the cheap paper coaster, her eyes fixed on the TV overhead even when she interjects into the conversation, even though they’re just reeling off the updates from the black-suited man with coiffed hair. Rick takes a hefty gulp of his coffee, glad that _he_ doesn’t look like a fucking hippie.

Fucking hippies.

Mirabella asks a question and he answers- it makes her smile and Sam laughs, then butts in with another thing that makes all of them laugh and Rick bounces off that and says yet another thing, their ensuing laughter launching him into the stars.

***

See, the thing is: Rick can go high, and he can go low. Maybe someone out there could get real deep on it, start weighing up if the good was worth the bad, but that ain’t Cliff. Cliff just weathers the storm- doesn’t ground him, ‘cuz Rick doesn’t need to be _grounded_. The highs are real fun, Cliff’s sure, like cigarette-dipped-in-acid sure and it makes for damn good acting and a damn good time all round. Cliff’s there to make sure it don’t become a runaway train- this applies even when Rick’s low, because you get him hooked on an idea when he’s at either end of the extreme and he’s liable to let his thoughts run away with him and fall over trying to keep up.

Turns out the name of this thing is the Apollo Twelve (watch Rick try and say that twice as fast, even sober) and for bits of it the whole restaurant’s silent as they all watch, then the exciting part’s over for now and Rick’s back with a bang again. In any other circumstances, on any other night, Cliff’d let him get on with it. He’s fun when he’s like this and he’s happy. And he’s back on set tomorrow and Cliff’s not, so… So no, he can’t let him carry on like this all night; they sleep little enough as it is now that they’re sleeping together.

He can enjoy it while it lasts though, so Cliff sits back, drinks his coffee and feeds Brandy table scraps, watching astronauts play amongst the stars.

In perhaps a first, neither the patrons not the owners of this restaurant make any fuss that Jake Cahill’s there and they’re sitting amongst a star all their own. He snorts at his own sentimentality- what is he, some love-struck girl out of a chick flick?

In hindsight, as they unlock the front door and he heads to unlock the back door to let Brandy out and stands there on the back step watching Rick pace round the living room with lots of hand gestures and an inexhaustible mouth, Cliff admits to himself that perhaps he let the combined weight of all the good coincidences that lined up this afternoon lure him into a false sense of security. Let his guard down. Like sleeping, he was ready to go on the offensive and switch back on at any point, nought to sixty in a second. Yet here they are… what do they say about boiling frogs in cold water again?

 _Need to be more careful_ he chides himself. Or he would if he were any other average joes. Cliff’s already internalised that lesson; let it seep under his skin like tattoo ink and become another barrier between him and the rest of the world. Now he just had to weather the runaway train. “Rick.”

“Yeah?” the way he snaps his attention over- just like _that_ , imitating Brandy and her dinner. “Ye- yeah, old pal, ol’ b-buddy, what is it?”

He tilts his head, “Get over here?”

He comes eagerly. Cliff intends to turn that into a euphemism before the night is over; as soon as he’s in arm’s reach getting his hands round his waist, pulling his shirt out his belt, loosening his belt, unzipping his fly. Rick’s always horny as hell when he’s like this and Cliff’s always horny as hell for Rick, so it’s no real hardship, tiring him out before he can do anything stupid. Rick will thank him for it later. (And he’ll use his mouth, win-win.)

The pounds he gained in Italy have been slipping away since he quit drinking but not all gone yet. It just means he has more to grab and hold onto _tight_. He turns them round so Rick’s backed up against the wall and Cliff’s mouth is real, real close to his neck, “Want me to take you to bed, cowboy?”

“Oh yeah,” Rick gasps, smashing their lips together. Fuck yeah.

***

Rick does a double take when he sees what time it is.

4:33am.

He looks over. Cliff ain’t even awake yet, though the sun’s coming up so the day’s already started. If he’s ever been awake this early before, it’s only because he hasn’t gone to bed yet. (Drinking did help with getting him to go to sleep at a reasonable time, regardless of whether or not he ended up in a bed.) “Holy shit.” Without thinking, he makes for the shower, barely remembering to shut the door before he turns the water on so as not to wake Cliff. _Why don’t I wanna wake Cliff again?_ He’s still pondering the answer as he locks the front door and clips Brandy’s leash to her collar. Spends a while- five minutes, maybe, less- lost in kneeing the ripples of fur bunched up at the back of her neck before she grows impatient and tugs him down the drive.

The walk itself Rick doesn’t remember a damn thing. Zilch. Nada.

“The hell’s wrong w-with me, girl?” he asks, seconds after Brandy’s yanked him back onto the pavement seconds before the car could hit him- it’s five in the morning and people are already driving, what the fuck?

Brandy’s a sweetheart, because she doesn’t give him a look- the _fucking_ _actors_ one. Never has.

He remembers no one else was out that early, no one except Brandy, anyway, and the sun was up and it was warm enough. The next thing he knows, he’s standing in his kitchen trying to work out how he can know for _sure_ it’s his kitchen. Coffee’s going cold on the side- he doesn’t want coffee anymore and instead of the radio playing the tape recorder’s on top of the microwave, spitting out other people’s lines for him to fill in the blanks like spitting out a tooth after a punch.

“ _If him living’s the problem, have I got a solution for you, Senor_ \- fucking shit don’t s-startle me l-like that!”

Bastard that he is, Cliff doesn’t even flinch, just frowns at Rick struggling with the tin opener. “You remember I told you Brandy needs a walk before breakfast?”

The bottom drops out of his gut- no, his whole fucking world, Goddamn- and he swallows. Cliff’s angry with him now, now it’s to do with Brandy. “Yeah I r-r-remember. We been out- I- I took her for a- I took her for a walk already, man. It’s okay, because I- I took her out.” Brandy barks a quick sound, head dangling over the back of the sofa in anticipation. Absently, Rick thinks of a damp spit in the same shape as her tongue, right in the middle of the soft leather.

Cliff seems to agree, “Yeah? That’s okay then.” He smiles, comes over, kisses him good morning, then stays with his arms wrapped round his waist and his chin on his shoulder as Rick curses the stupid fucking tin opener long and hard. “You’re making a mess of that, partner.”

It’s not just a statement; he gives up with a huff and lets a pair of arms not his own take over, watching with morbid and embarrassing fascination as the scars on his bicep twist. Like snakes.

Someone found a snake on the set of _Bounty Law_ once; not on the beginning and not near the end. Figured it must’ve mistaken the sand they’d put down for a real desert. He thinks one of the runners took it home as a pet, an honest to god snake, curled in a food in with a piece of cardboard over the top held steady with five elastic bands, took it home in the passenger seat of his light green Chevrolet.

“What?” everything being said is warped and instinctively he ties to swim to the surface to hear better. You can’t make out nothing underwater, can’t tell no one apart. The words repeat themselves, one by one.

“You’re up early today.”

He shrugs, feeling defensive of his privacy and more than a little tired, “So? Felt like it.”

“Coulda woken me,” the heat at his back presses closer, as if he almost isn’t wearing a shirt at all. “Coulda… kept you occupied.”

“Then who’d’ve walked Brandy?”

He feels a breeze of cold air against his back. His feelings would plummet south again, but they’re still sunk down south. One o the cupboard doors opens and shuts and cereal plinks into a bowl. _He’s just getting cereal. It’s just cereal_. He closes his eyes and can’t quite catch his breath. “What’re you d-doin’ today?”

It’s a rare day that him and only him’s needed. Rare but whenever the studio needs only one of them, it’s him, it’s Rick and not Cliff they need, that’s why he’s Rick Dalton, Rick fucking Dalton the fucking star. Nevermind the only need him because today it’s a script read and it’s given already that Cliff’ll be his stunt man- he’s the star, _he’s_ Rick fucking Dalton and Cliff can’t ever be _that_.

After driving him to work, Cliff’s going to do things he doesn’t quite catch, ignoring his coffee to try a new hair style in his reflection off the toaster. It’s quiet, domestic, easy and just as he's about to go and get his back Cliff’s voice stops him, “Ain’t you gonna have breakfast?”

“They’ll have- have- there’ll be bagels when I get there.”

“Y’don’t even want your coffee?” the words are so gentle, as if he thinks Rick’ll spook if he asks the question any other way.

If Rick was a cat, he’d fucking hiss.

“You ain’t gotta- gotta fuckin’ baby me!” he snaps, storming down the hall to get his bag. He fucking hates Cliff.

-

Naturally, the first thing he does when he’s told the news is call Cliff.

Today’s script read is for an actual honest to god part in an actual movie. He’s opposite James Stacey, but he won’t exactly be a _villain_ , just a jaded ex-cop who can teach the earnest new detective a thing or two whilst proving he didn’t murder his ex-boss. Rick knows enough about working with people you hate to think he just might nail this part.

Stacey is… well, he's nice and polite, affable, is that the word? Professional, strokes Rick’s ego. Rick’s surprised he still can’t tell if he likes the guy or not, but he tries not to let it show, tries to be polite and not let all his words spill out of him at once and lends cigarettes and a matchbook from a restaurant. He doesn’t remember ever going to that place. Stacey offers him congratulations.

“Huh? For what?”

And that’s how he’s ended up here now, tapping his feet, just waiting for Cliff to pick up on the other end, pressing the receiver of the payphone hard into his face, too hot in his leather jacket in the middle of the day or whatever time of day it is.

“Dalton residence.”

“I got nominated!” Probably everyone on set can hear him.

“Congratulations,” Cliff genuinely means it, he can tell. “Well done. Buddy.”

“For- for- for the Oscars!” he insists, nodding his head, wishing payphones came with seats or just some place he could sit, he tried to have a cigarette, but was waving his hands about so much it kept going out. “James Stacey told me. James Stacey, Cliff! _Lancer’s_ been re-renewed for a second s-s-season and he told me!”

“That’s great, man. Think what the paper’ll say, huh? Rick fuckin’ Dalton’s been nominated.”

“Yeah. Wait- what- Cliff- what’s wrong?” Something just ain’t right, he knows it by his voice- Cliff’s his best friend and he _knows_ , motherfucking shit he knows. “Aw, shit, Cliff it ain’t- ain’t nothing h-happened t-to Brandy, did it?”

The reply, when it comes, is slow, like lava freezing over, except it ain’t. “Rick, I told you that that woman wrote and said you’d been nominated last week.”

Rick freezes, “The hell y-you fucking did!”

“Yeah I did, Rick.”

See, Rick don’t want to carry on this road and call his best buddy a liar, because he’s his buddy and he’s not a liar and if there’s anything that’ll finally make him lose his patience it’s bound to be calling him a liar. But Rick’d bet his horse- his _house_ \- that he: “Never fucking told me!”

“I did” over the phone he sounds tense and unhappy. “Last Thursday, buddy, remember? I picked you up from down town and told you in the car on the way to pick up Brandy from the vet’s.”

“The- the- fucking- the hell you fuckin’ did, what you think- think I’d for-forget ‘bout that? No-“ he cuts him off before he can lie anymore. “No, Cliff, God fucking damn fucking shit, y-you ain’t pull-pulling one over me, alright? I m-m-might be a- a has-been and a drunk who consid-d-d-ered blowin’ his brains out, but I ai-ain’t stupid, you hear?”

Now he’s processed it, he can feel properly _angry_ that he never told him. Why the fuck would he think Rick wouldn’t wanna know about that about straight away? Instead made him find out from James Stacey, of all people. He waits on an answer that never comes. “God-d-dammnit, are you even listening to m-me?”

It doesn’t spur him on, and when he does reply, the words are slow and measured, placed down one after the other. “When-“ he swallows, it makes a ‘click’ that’s audible over the phone. “When did you think about shooting yourself, Rick?”

Rick slams the phone down.

***

Cliff kind of knew this was all too god to be true and he was ready for it. Learnt to sleep in the army, remember?

All of this was too good to last, all of it: he made a full recovery, Francesca left and comes over most weeks for dinner, Brandy loves the pool, Rick quit drinking, Rick sucked him off, Rick kissed him, Rick got roles again, Rick got him work again, Rick loves him- ah, Goddamit, what the fuck is he meant to do now? It’s the last thought to occur to him as the phone lines cuts out and Rick disappears.

Part of him contemplates driving over to find him, or at least wait in the parking lot until he can set about persuading him to get in the car. Cliff rejects the idea pretty quick- by the time he’s got there, production’ll have wrapped up for the day and Rick’ll have started to make his own way home. That’s a certainty, no matter what happens: Rick will come home. Unless he, like, gets hit by a car or something, Rick’s modus operandi after a bad day at work is to go home and lock himself indoors and wallow in self-pity interspersed with bitter muttering. He can deal with _that_ part just fine, it’s the waiting around he ain’t no good at. He’s a patient guy by nature, or at least calm, but Rick’s always had a way of pushing his buttons.

Rick fucking Dalton, huh?

So, Cliff tries to keep himself busy. Feeds Brandy, plays with Brandy, fixes the radio, starts a shopping list, remembers to put shampoo on the shopping list, changes the sheets and then decides _what the heck_ and makes the bed in the guest room, too.

He’s whittled away every unnecessary task in thirty minutes or less and turns his attention to improving the radio, with regular breaks to pet Brandy, and is just screwing the casing back on when she starts to whine, followed by the rumble of a heavy car engine. Rick’s home. The front door unlocks and the whirlwind that is Rick Dalton stumbles in, tears already star-dropping down his cheeks. Cliff goes still when he spies the bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand but holds his tongue.

“I’m n-not fuck-fuck- _fuck_ fucking doin’ it!” he yells, throwing his bag down on the floor and stomping off up the hallway to search for who he’s not realised is in the living room. Cliff wonders if he only started crying once he pulled onto Cielo Drive or was already blubbing when he left work. Probably the latter- Rick’s never had much in the way of self-control.

“What happened?” Normally, he’d let him rant and rant until he were spent but this is one of those times where leaving him to spiral into his own head veers into ‘runaway train’ territory. It’s already crossed the line into dangerous’.

He sits back further on the couch and motions to Brandy to move over onto the armchair as Rick comes back into the living room. “Hey, buddy, what’s happened?”

“I-I-I’m qui-quitting!” he shouts, pacing frantically and unable to light a cigarette with how bad his free hand shakes. “I’m g-g-gonna- go- gonna go there tomo-o-orrow an’ q-quit!”

Cliff winces to hear his stutter so bad and begins to understand everything that’s happened since he hung up the phone. “Now why the hell would you wanna do a thing like that?”

“I ca-can’t-can’t even speak!” With a snarl of disgust, he throws the lighter down and tears the cigarette away, turning on his heel.

“That’s a fire hazard.”

“Jes-s-sus, I need- I need a drink.”

He follows him into the kitchen and takes the bottle from his hand and crosses his arms. Barr what he’s holding, there’s nothing in the house for him to drink. He checked twice before Rick got home. “You don’t wanna drink, buddy. How much’ve you had already?”

A sniff. “Coupla, a coupla mouthfuls.”

He starts to say something else and then gives up halfway through because he can’t get the words out right. By the way his face crumples completely and fresh tears start pouring out, Cliff knows it’s safe to go over and put his arms round him. (And lay the bottle down on the draining board so the three quarters left starts glugging out into the sink out of sight.) Tears immediately begin to soak through the fabric of his shirt and he shushes him, saying the words right into his ear the way he likes. “You’re not quitting- no, no, you’re gonna let me finish here.” He tightens his hold, “You’re not gonna quit. You’re gonna go there tomorrow and blow everyone else away with your acting, like you always do.”

“B-b-but-“ he can’t say the words again, gets even more frustrated and glossy-eyed with himself, stutters out a lot of angry swears all directed at himself that are muffled by how he buries his head in his shoulder.

“Is this about your stutter?” the questions sounds like a surprised one; as if the idea’s only just occurred to him. Manipulating a guy who’s a sensitive mess at the best of times and downright neurotic at the worst out of his bad moods is a long-honed art. At the mere mention of it, Rick starts bawling anew. _Bullseye_. “You know better than anyone it gets worse when you get yourself all worked up over it. Today’s just a bad day, you’ll be fine once you calm down.”

His gasps sound a bit like a dying fish, or a dying man. Cliff has enough experience of both to know they sound real similar. He can just make out the word ‘whiskey’ before he takes a breath and mumbles through his tears: “I b-b-borrowed one’f- one of the s-studio cars.”

“Drove yourself home?”

He nodes, refuses to meet his eyes.

Cliff sighs. _Goddamnit, man_. “Well you ain’t gonna do that again. We’ll have to get up early tomorrow to sneak that thing back in. Like I said- today’s just a bad day is all.”

“I don’t want- want- no more bad-d-d-days!”

Shit. But, well, Rick’s always been kind of a romantic like that. Cliff just rides the waves, accepts it, takes pleasure in how it means anytime life seems out to get you and only you its just pure fucking coincidence. Rick ain’t like that. If Cliff has instinct upon instinct to protect him from the world, Rick has worry after worry burrowing from the inside out and leaving him vulnerable, each stutter and failure tearing him apart and leaving him open to attack.

That’s why Cliff’s here.

“Shit, boss, me neither, but bad days happen. It’ll turn round again. Aw hey now, don’t gimme that look. C’mon, _relax_ and it’ll start getting better, just...” he clicks his fingers, “Just like that, remember those breathing exercises you used to read about, back when we first met?” He leaves out the part where he surprised Rick in his trailer reading a book meant for pregnant women he stole off someone and how he’d burst out laughing to find the stuck up his ass star of the show that way, how he’d gotten the silent treatment for days until he gave him his old army manual with the bits about breathing exercises dog-eared as an apology. (They’d been inseparable after that.)

Rick huffs a laugh and a puff of air hits his neck, “Yeah.”

Cliff pushes out and in with his hands, mimicking the exercises he’d been reading about all those years ago, the vain attempt to try and stop his stutter for good. “Now what was that?” he tilts his head to the side, tilts Rick’s head to the other side to get a good look at him, tears and all. “I didn't hear no stutterin’.”

“One w-word. Big deal, C-C-Cliff.”

“That was three words.”

“ye-eah, but, but…” he mumbles something too low to make out.

“Gonna have to speak up, buddy.” Light teasing is alright now. Now it’s safe.

“God-Goddamnit, I st-stuttered the first t-t-time I told you I – I l-loved you- _fuck_.”

That’s real sweet, in that self-centred, narcissistic and neurotic way of his.

Well, Cliff might not have killed his wife but he definitely didn’t save her. They’re kind of perfect for each other like that.

“Anyone can say I love you,” he says, cupping Rick’s face in his hands. “Who’s stuck around and told me again and again?”

Rick looks away, “Me.”

“You.”

He kisses him gently. Rick doesn’t _really_ kiss back but he doesn’t pull away either. “Have you calmed down, now?” Rick nods, face still wet. Cliff decides they’ve both had all they can take for one day. “Alright, then. Go get changed, I’ll make dinner.” He shakes his head. Cliff isn’t prepared to give him a choice and Rick isn’t prepared to put up a fight. “ _Go,”_ he insists, gently turning him in the direction of the bedroom. “You can try to eat a little somethin’ at least.”

Rick goes. He can hear him sniffing back more sobs down the hall but decides against going after him, unsure he can be of any more help than what he’s already done, doubtful if he goes that he’ll actually make dinner. There’s a bunch of reasons to go and a million reasons to stay. Brandy, sensitive to the tension in the air, whines a little. When he turns to look at her, she jumps off the chair and pads down the hall.

 _That settles that, then._ Now what the fuck are they gonna have for dinner?

Nothing changes, after that. Which is okay: Cliff’s been here before, several times over. This isn’t even the worst time. Rick’s refusing to speak unless he _insists_ , half sulking and half refusing to let himself stutter. Probably on tenterhooks wondering if he’ll be taken to task for drink driving tonight, too. He picks at the eggs and toast Cliff made until he _insists_ , then he forces down a piece of toast and blanches when he suggests he tries the eggs.

He leaves it be, lets Rick’s latest cameo tinkle between them until Brandy starts to wag her tail and the news comes on. He gets up and starts washing up, wondering how to broach the topic of taking her out for a walk to Rick. Behind him, he senses movement and stops scrubbing the pan, listening. Quick steps, too anxious to tread lightly, a door opens then another, then the slam of the toilet seat and the faint sound of retching, the memory of the scent itches his nose. Cliff rolls his eyes, _actors_. The stupid idiot’s gone and worried himself sick- though the straight whiskey after so long sober probably isn’t helping none.

He drops the frying pan, decides it’s better to leave it to soak a while anyway and heads down the hall after his partner, drying is hands on his jeans. Would be hard to explain if he let him choke on his own vomit.

But most of all: Cliff’s worried. He’s not a guy who worries, just as a general rule but… Well, Rick fucking Dalton, that’s what.

“Hey now,” he speaks softly, the same way you did to the young soldiers whose eyes were close to rolling back in their heads. “You need anything?” If asked the question, he’d have to take a long time to pinpoint the first time Rick was quite so low. Not that he isn’t low on a regular basis, but not low in _this_ way; in the way that makes him throw up and hate himself more than he hates the world. When _Bounty Law_ ended, perhaps, or when they were waiting to hear if it’d get renewed for a second season.

“No.”

He really hoped that wasn’t gonna be the answer. “Okay.”

He’s forgot all about the dirty dishes at this point, mind whirring. The empty whiskey bottle in the trash, the (technically stolen) car on the drive, partner in the bathroom and dog in the living room. He picks up the phone, remembers fondly when everything was as simple as _fucking hippies_ and starts dialling Sharon’s number. She owes him a favour; unlike most people in Hollywood she’ll let him call it in. Sharon’s nice like that.

-

Sharon does him one better and knocks on the door ten minutes later, pushing the baby in his stroller and smiling like taking your neighbour’s boyfriend’s dog out for a walk for a reason he can’t tell you is no trouble at all.

Sharon Tate is a fucking angel.

She even waves off his thanks, cooing over Brandy and pulling the parasol out the way to let her sniff the baby. “It’s no problem! We often go for walks when it’s nice out like this.” She stands upright again and tucks her hair behind her ear, looking at him closely and kindly, “Is everything okay?”

The smile he forces feels like it’ll pull his face apart; he can’t imagine how it looks from her end, tries at least to take comfort in the soft evening breeze as he leans on the door frame. “Everything’s fine, just Rick ain’t feelin’ too good and it don’t feel right leaving him alone, you know?”

On cue, Rick throws up again far away inside the house. Sharon winces in sympathy and Cliff wants to thank Rick _and_ scoff. _Actors_. “Well if there’s anything else you need, you just let me know, alright?”

“Sure thing.” He bids her goodbye and shuts the door. Doesn’t _run_ to find Rick but still goes and checks up on him.

He looks up when he opens and bathroom door again and down again just as quick, dangling like _Muffin the Mule_ on broken strings, a fucking mess. “D’you think- think that James S-Stacey’ll res-respect me, in the m-morning?”

“Don’t see why not,” he sits on the edge of the bathtub next to him, facing the same way so he can’t see his face.

“Ev’ry- every time he s-sees me I fuck up.”

“That sounds like his problem.”

He laughs then spits into the toilet. Cliff watches him in side-profile, picking his moment to say something, “You need to get some sleep, partner.”

“No- I w-want- what about Brandy?”

“I called Sharon. She’s taking Brandy for a walk right now.”

“You _what_ \- Goddamn it t-to fucking s-shit, Cliff, I don’t wanna- I don’t want her to s-see I’m fuckin’… like _this_!”

“I spun her some bullshit so she won’t think you’re like this. What kinda amateur d’you think I am, huh?” Rick mutters something he refuses to rise to. “Look,” leaning forward, he puts his hand on the back of Rick’s neck, still just outta view and lowering his voice into the patient care that he knows he responds best to. “You need to get some sleep.”

“Can’t.”

He raises his eyebrows, “Tellin’ me you ain’t tired?”

“N-no, but the- the waiting to f-f-fall asleep, I just c-can’t do it.”

“You’ve been awake for hours and you’re tired, you’ll be out like a light soon as your head hits the pillow. Now brush your teeth.”

He does and silence falls over their shoulders until he spits toothpaste into the sink to ask, “Can I w-wear my robe?”

Cliff shrugs, “’S your bed, ain’t it?” Rick’ll just have to take that as a yes.

He keeps himself busy for a while, listening out for any commotion- because if anyone’s getting into any trouble just getting into bed, it’s bound to be Rick. He decides now’s as good a time as ever to clean the bathroom and makes a show of wiping down the counters and pouring some electric blue beach in the toilet before flushing it away. When he’s done pretending, he can’t put it off any longer and steps into the bedroom; Rick did indeed change into one of his robes (the red and black one) and is curled up into the tightest ball possible facing the wall, hunched in the bottom corner of the bed without even a pillow. Cliff leaves him be. As far as he can tell, he is actually sleeping. Goes into the living room to wait for Sharon coming back with Brandy. It’s only seven but he still feels bone-tired thinking of the six pack of beer that he’s got hidden in the boot of his car. Hey, Rick quit drinking, not him.

***

Upon waking, all the memories of last night quickly hide themselves away behind a locked door. Rick blinks, turns over and finds himself face to face with Cliff’s feet and wonders how the _fuck_ he got here. The memories refuse to budge, leaving him with just one thought, rattling about in his head like a pinball machine. _Sleep on the sofa_. Which makes no fucking sense.

“Shit,” he groans, pulling himself into a sitting position.

Disappointingly or strangely, everything is in one piece, nothing shattered or left over on the floor, nothing stained, like whatever happened last night didn’t fucking happen, if anything fucking happened last night. For the second time in a row, he’s awake and Cliff is still asleep. It’s weird- he’s never seen Cliff sleep, except for Vegas when they were both black out drunk, ever since they started… whatever the hell this is. There’s no bullshit or romance or whatever: he just looks like Cliff, but asleep. Except for his eyes, which aren’t open, obviously. When he’s awake he looks at everything at once in a way that always makes a voice in the back of Rick’s head say ‘the guy is a fucking war here’. Always on the alert for everything. It makes Rick feel safe. He still feels safe now, kind of, though in a different way. Different to the way a stuntman and his attack dog usually makes a guy feel safe.

From the living room’s perspective, Rick sees himself make his way to the couch and throw himself down. In the dark grey light of three in the morning, him going in and out of frame, feet on the carpet, on the rug and then disappearing as he reaches the couch.

He starts off staring at the TV, even though it’s off, then when he keeps thinking of the stains that the armchair is hiding he rolls over and buries his face in the cool leather. Doesn’t think of anything at all except how he stays there, in the middle of the shot and the sun creeps up the walls and in the next frame Cliff comes out and sits alongside him, good leg off the couch and bad leg on, pressing up along his back. Rick breathes out, feeling the hot air make his face clammy, feels a different sort of safe.

“You have breakfast yet?”

“Don’t want any.” Logically, he knows he should because this empty feeling needs _filling_ , just like in Italy, but Goddamit after breakfast comes the rest of the day with the world and as far as Rick’s concerned, the world can just fuck right off.

Cliff sighs. Rick pictures a boat’s fishing line, run out and pulled taunt; he really wouldn’t blame Cliff if he’s finally lost his patience. Rick has a habit of being too much for people. “What’re we gonna do with you, partner?”

“Get r-rid.”

“No can do, so what else?”

He tries not to cry. Fails. Feels Cliff put a hand on his shoulder warm and heavy and refuses to turn round. “I don’t- I don’t enjoy b-bein’ like this, you know? I fucking- I fucking _don’t_ , I r-r-really fucking don’t l-like bein’ like this.”

The hand stills, tangled in the hair at the back of his neck, “Never thought you did.”

“I don’t f-fucking I- like- I don’t like that I k-keep fucking up and- and- and _it’s not fair_ ‘cuz I thought it’d be- it’d be better, w-without drinking, but it ain’t. It ain’t fair, Cliff, it ain’t. everyone yesterday at the r-rest- rest of the s-script read looked at me as if- like I was fucking M-M-Marilyn Monroe and I’m not- not even as fucking- as good at acting a-a-as she was.”

He feels, somehow, even more empty now all the words have left him. He’s not even crying anymore. Goddamn fucking shit, why’d he get out of bed this morning? _Fix it_ , only Cliff can’t, can he? He wants to tell Cliff he loves him, even if Cliff can’t fix him, and that he’s handsome and all the rest of it. But Cliff doesn’t need that, or any of the other things Rick can give him or the jobs he can get him. Cliff can survive anything and Rick can’t even cope with himself. Cliff just needs _him_ , needs him to be Rick and Rick really would probably give him anything if he really had to, but being Rick is so fucking hard. All the space he takes up is just thin air.

And Cliff, damn him, God fucking damn the bastard and everything about him, the bastard, all he does is hum and move a bit closer, keeping his hand steady on his shoulder as he swings his other leg up onto the sofa. “Shit, Rick, I can’t fix you. You can’t fix me.”

Slowly, he turns over and presses his face into Cliff’s thigh instead of the couch, the scar from the fucking hippies an inch away from his face. “I know that.” He does, he does, he does. “Just- just l-life’s so fuck-fucking shit.”

“It has its moments.”

He presses closer, even closer, until he’s not sure where one of them starts and the other stops, which is how it’s always been with Cliff, even when they’ve not lived together. “I’m g-g-glad it’s you.”

“Huh?”

“If there’s gotta- if shit’s gotta happen, I’m g-glad we’re in this to-to-together.” He looks up just in time to see a soft smile dart over his face. Very briefly, a hand squeezes his. Tight. He squeezes back. There’s lots of other things they need to talk about which they won’t until Cliff makes him later. Rick squeezes his hand some more. “I th-think I can try- can try pancakes. You want pancakes?”

“Sure,” Cliff says, patient and easy. “Pancakes sound good.”

***

Cliff sharpens his gaze, a predator, hidden not by trees or forest but by cigarette smoke, “You okay now, man?” He really needs a drink. Can’t imagine how Rick must feel.

He nods, flicking tears away and turning round so his back’s to him- pretending he’s looking at Brandy outside. “She r-really loves the pool, don’t she?”

Really, after they’ve spoken about all the shit that’s gone through Rick’s head in the past six months, Cliff should press the issue. But that ain’t how it works with Rick. “Not just the pool. She likes being here with you too, you know.”

Using his dog as a metaphor isn’t the worse thing he’s ever done, especially seeing as Rick seems to understand by the way he cracks a fragile smile. “Right.”

***

It’s shaping up to be an unholy hot afternoon when Rick first catches wind something’s wrong. Everything’s been going suspiciously _fine_ after the mess of last week. “Quiet on set!” shouts a guy behind him and he doesn’t look round, fingers itching for a cigarette and cursing himself for leaving his pack in his trailer. Gaye’s _How Sweet It Is_ blaring out from the coffee station’s radio shuts off with a smack and he ducks through the door and huffs with disgust that all he breathes in is hot air. _It’s a huge tin can sitting out in the sun all day long_ the voice in his head sounds exactly like Cliff, wry amusement and all. _What d’you expect_?

He’d expect not to have fucking seventy degrees in November, Christ and shit. You wouldn’t get winters like this in Missouri. If it’s hot in here, how’s he meant to smoke, and if smoking’s out the question, how’s he meant to keep his fingers still?

“Fuck,” swears Rick, glowering at his shaky hands- it’s been like this since last week. Not on set, because God forbid Rick fucking Dalton stutter or shake when the camera’s on, mother fuckers. But in the quieter moments, there’s a fear in him he just can’t shake.

He mentioned it to Cliff, once, then never again. Cliff said somethin’ ‘bout a _spidey-sense_ and then laughed at his own stupid joke. Sorry he’s too busy and too smart to read comic books, man, screw you.

Rick figures trying a cigarette can’t do any harm anyway; is just reaching for the matchbook when outside a guy shouts, “Fire!”

 _That ain’t in the script_.

Instead of actually going to the door and looking, he pulls back one of the orange-patterned curtains. Smoke is trailing out the roof of one of the buildings on set up into the sky; as if God’s gone _you know what? Fuck this I need a break_ and sat down for a second with his own cigarette.

Accidents up to and including fires aren’t all that uncommon- especially on big movies like these where a producer’s got more budget than sense and tries out a shit-tonne of special effects just because- so Rick isn’t too worried. (Big fucking surprise, yeah, he _knows_.)crew are running back and forth with buckets, which is insane in this heat. Just sound the fire alarm so everyone gets out and wait for the fire engine to get here and do its job, right?

Out of pure curiosity, he tries to pinpoint exactly where’s on fire. Not near makeup, that has the pink slates, not the part near Wardrobe, that’s got a tarpaulin over part of the rook. Not there or there or even there, which just leaves the actual offices they got mocked up for the shoot- hopefully it’s that and not the canteen, ‘cuz he could do with some- Cliff’s got to be in the offices right about now.

“Oh shit” Rick sobs, falling down the steps to his trailer and running towards the smoke that’s turned into practically an inferno. “Cliff! Cliff!”

***

Fires and accidents happen all the time on a busy production set, which is why Cliff immediately retreats outside to a safe distance when he smells smoke. Two seconds after he crosses the threshold, the fire alarm starts and proves him right. Eh, this’ll probably set the schedule back by a day or two, but that’s neither his nor Rick’s problem so Cliff sits down and enjoys the view, cigarette already halfway to his mouth and enjoying the extra smoke break. Rick he knows (he checked) is in his trailer, so even in the unlikely event the fire spreads it’s got some ways to go before it touches him.

Sharon and Jay are on set today, for a reason he’ll remember if it comes up in conversation, and they look as unperturbed as he feels. He nods, answers when they ask, interjects just enough so as not to appear he’s isolating himself, always keeping one eye on the way the flames crack apart the building. Kinda how the spaghetti broke in the put when they were cooking dinner last night.

From the left of his vision streaks a shooting star. Cliff blinks, taking less than a second to identify the stupid white suit Rick’s character was wearing last time he saw him and puts two and two together just as the wind whips his voice into earshot.

“Cliff!” either he’s sobbing or stuttering, he can’t quite tell. He’s running- when’s the last time Cliff saw him run anywhere?- straight for the building that’s going up in flames, shouting his name all the while. _I’m here_ the words dies in his throat and he’s sprinting out towards him before Sharon and jay’ve even turned round, desperate to intercept Rick before he gets too close to the burning offices. He thinks he can hear Jay and Sharon calling out the words for him but doesn’t spare the time to think, any time thinking of anything else is time in which Rick could get into the fire. He forces himself to sprint like there’s a sniper with a sight on his back because his life is on the line here- literally because if Rick goes, he goes, in every sense of the word, runs like there’s a sniper with a sight on Rick’s head, feels the scar on his hip burn with the same fear he felt in August. “Rick!” he yells. There’s no time to slow down. He’s near- he’s near- “ _Rick!”_ \- he’s closer- closer- fucking- he grabs Rick by the shoulder and they tumble together, pushed forward by their joint momentum. There’s a shriek from somewhere- they stop just in time. They stop just in time, gasping for breath. Cliff doesn’t let them linger for a second, smoke thick in the back of his throat because they ain’t out of danger yet, pulls them back away from the fire so hard he hears fabric tear.

“Cliff!” Rick shouts, the volume dying out before he’s even finished the word as he turns round fully and realises he’s here and not inside. The soot in the air is sticking to his wet cheeks. “You’re not-“

“No.” Cliff grits his teeth round the word, all focus on getting them the hell _away_ , through the crowd in a circle watching the fire, until there’s a barrier between Rick and the danger, and Cliff between it and him if the barrier ever fails. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“What was I- the f-f-fuck were _you_ damn thinking- I thought- I thought you were s-st-still in there!”

“Okay.” He runs a hand over his face and finally lets himself breathe out, the taste of smoke in the air evidence of how close it came. Absolutely none of this if fucking okay, but… “Well we’re both not dead. How about not doing that again, huh?”

Rick’s face changes expression about twenty times over the course of the next two seconds, finally settling into one of exasperated wonder as he punches Cliff in the shoulder and Sharon and Jay approach. “The next t-time you make me th-think you’re d-dead, I’m gonna k-kill you.”

***

At home, afterwards, Cliff introduces Rick to the joy of hot, mess, life-affirming sex and Rick holds his hand throughout; tight enough their bones creak together.

In bed, after _that_ , they lay side by side, panting, sharing a joint Jay gave them and watching the ceiling. Brandy jumps up to take her spot, too.

“That was c-crazy,” declares Rick, gesturing with the joint for emphasis. “Goddamn crazy week- goddamn crazy year.”

“It’s been a hell of a week,” Cliff agrees, tipping his head back and grinning. “Only in Hollywood, huh? Shit, old buddy, I think we’ve made it to Hollywood.”

“Yeah,” Rick nods, turning to pass him the joint; his eyes are very blue now he’s not on TV. “Holy shit.”


End file.
